


hunkle grunkle

by veus



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Reader-Insert, a lotta fluff with the occasional dash of nsfw, while generally maintaining an ace reader undertone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-02 21:53:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 26,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6584014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veus/pseuds/veus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a handful of short fordxreader, stanxreader things, posted as individual chapters for convenience. incomplete by its nature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, reassurance

You tell him you just want to make him happy. He holds you tighter.

“Oh darling,” he murmurs, and you close your eyes, not wanting to see the pity in his gaze, “I am happy. This is…this is more than enough,” Ford says, and you look up at him when you hear the low chuckle that follows. He’s smiling at you, eyes crinkling in a gentle sort of joy, the curve of his mouth the only thing betraying the hint of leftover sadness. You can’t believe– it’s too hard to believe. You just nod, silently, and let yourself relax into the embrace.

“I never expected this for myself,” he continues, voice quiet in a quiet room, the afternoon sun seeping through the curtains. You put your hand over his; your fingers intertwine. “The life I have now, I could’ve only dreamed of a few years ago. Though,” he reflects, with that oft distant look, “dreams like these are rare when you’re journeying through the multiverse.”

You agree; this life seems so mundane in comparison. You’ve heard the stories Ford recounts to his great niece and nephew, complete with dramatic gestures and plenty of oohs and aahs; along with the hushed versions he shares with Stan on the odd evening, sometimes with haunted eyes and a broken voice. Even averaged out, it’s clear this is nothing compared to what he lived for thirty years. His gaze softens as he refocuses on you.

“And what about you?” Ford asks, and you can feel the flow of this conversation like the curve of a well-worn river stone. You settle in for the old pattern, already reaching for your practiced replies. “You’ve got a bright future ahead of you; you deserve more than an old man who’s seen better days.”

You remind him that he’s a genius with 12 PhD’s; not a bad catch, you conclude, and he’s still blushing from the compliment when he bats your teasing tone away.

“I mean it,” he insists, and you can feel the familiarity ebbing away, “I don’t want to– hold you back.”

Your hand clenches over his, and your voice fails you at the start, but grows strong as you tell him how good it is to be here, with him. He makes you happy, and you say so. He smiles like that’s what he wanted all along.

“Do you see now?” he asks. You’re sleepy and little slow on the uptake, but when you do see it your lips quirk in the midpoint between fond and exasperated.

“That’s how you make me happy,” he says, his grin blindingly beautiful. “You here, with me.”


	2. still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, nightmares

It’s him and he’s muttering under his breath in his sleep, fingers twitching like there’s something for him to chase after or a weapon for him to aim, and it doesn’t register that it’s a nightmare until he whispers a broken “no” and you know you should shake him awake.

Ford, you call, and suddenly your world’s upside down.

If he had a gun he’d have drawn it on you. Only lately he’s been feeling safer, more secure, and taken to leaving his handgun with the rest of his small arsenal locked away in the basement. He’s shaking and sweating and his eyes are unfocused, still stuck in his dream; he looks so vulnerable without the bold frame of his glasses it makes your heart ache. His hands are tight around your wrist, your shoulder, and you realize belatedly that he must’ve pushed you down.

Ford, you say once more, because you’re not sure what else to say but that. You try to sound comforting, but you only make it to halfway-scared.

He looks right through you. Still talking to himself, a litany of sorry sorry sorry and all-my-faults, and you want to counter it, stem the flow, but your voice dies in your throat and all you can do is wait until his arms unlock on their own and the tense line of his body falters and he looks, stares, into your eyes like he finally sees them.

“Oh,” he says.

Your voice still fails you but you don’t need to tell him what happened; he knows.

“Oh,” he repeats, and it sounds choked like he might cry. He’s been feeling safer and the nightmares had lessened and it was good, it was hopeful, but here you were again, like you were months ago, except this time the muzzle of a gun isn’t nestled under your jaw like a cold hard promise with the safety on.

Ford, you try, and it’s weak, but he hears it. He shakes his head.

“No,” he says, and you feel the shaky drag of his thumb across your cheek, light enough that you’re sure he’s still figuring out if this is real. He must decide it is, because he collapses over you, beside you, and he’s whispering apologies, wrapping himself around you like you’re precious and meant to be protected while you think the exact same, about him.

“I’m not–” he says, and you gather him close. “I’m sorry–” he says, and you whisper his name, “I’m,” he begins, and ends, and hugs you back fiercely like it’s the one shield charm that’s guaranteed to work. It’s a lie, but a merciful one, and another stays unspoken on your tongue. It’s okay, you want to say; it’ll all be okay. But you’ve heard enough lies for one night, and he’s told himself more, so you save it, for some day it’ll be the truth.


	3. better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, comfort

When you entered the kitchen and saw him there, you almost turned around and walked the other way. But he noticed you, standing just beyond the doorway, and you couldn’t pretend you hadn’t met his eyes.

“Still up at this hour?” Ford asks, an easy smile on his face. He turns back to his work, scribbling something else down. “I’m just finishing up; I’ll go to bed soon.”

A lie if you ever heard one; from amount of paper fanned out on the kitchen table, books laid open to his left and right, you can tell he’s going to take a few more hours at the least. You hang back, trying to figure out the best way to make your retreat silently, but your hesitance prompts him to look up again from his work, this time more attentively. The shadows can’t hide the expression on your face, and neither can you; the change in his demeanor is immediate.

“Oh, darling..” and he sets down his pen, mid-calculation, he’s going to lose his place for your sake, “Are you alright?” He stands up, the chair weakly scraping into the floor as he pushes it aside to make his way towards you.

“Did you have a nightmare?” He asks, and you think it’s at the forefront of his mind because he’s had so many, so often. You mumble a negative, trying to brush it off, but this close the shadows can’t hide your tears anymore and Ford stiffens.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he says. He sounds almost vulnerable, but his words are backed with the conviction of someone ready to punch your problems into the next dimension if you just said the word. If only it were that simple.

You want to tell him, but you can’t; the words stick in your throat, and you think what you’re feeling hardly makes sense to you in the first place. The jumble of sentences you’ve thought up to explain the whole mess to him are too many to sort through and as your silence drags on, worry sets into his features. He steps closer, and you lean into his embrace.

“Back to bed?” He asks, when you hesitate. “I’ll come with you.”

You finally nod, and he leads the way. In the absence of a hug he holds your hand the whole way there.

You offer a quiet “sorry,” eyes fixed on the floor as you follow him. Your emotions have simmered down into a mixture of guilt and relief; part of you regrets taking him from his work, but you already feel better and less, alone. 

“No need to apologize,” he says. He stops walking and you look up to realize that you’re in front of the bedroom door, still ajar. “Besides, you’re more important at the moment.”

You’re not sure if you can accept that, so you say nothing. Ford smiles at you with that sweet patient smile and it strikes you that he was probably up for a reason, perhaps even to avoid sleep, and here you are making him come to bed with you because of your silly insecurities.

You let go of his hand and tell him you’re fine now. He looks a little puzzled at first, then settles into skeptical.

“Are you sure?” He asks. You bite your lip and nod. He frowns a little in thought to consider that, and you hope, for a moment, he stays anyway.

“Well, I didn’t come all this way for nothing,” he finally declares, as though the two of you had made a long arduous trek instead of just walking down the hallway. “You don’t mind if I stay a while, do you?”

The look on his face says he tailored that offer for you and also that he, really, wants to help – your guilt be damned, you accept. You hesitantly climb into bed, a little disbelieving as Ford follows suit, laying back on the bedspread with his boots still on. You’re too distracted to frown disapprovingly at his footwear, and instead, scoot in closer for a hug. His warmth is as comforting as ever, and you fit snugly in his arms, almost perfect. It calms you, and you almost feel sleepy again.

A silence passes, until he breaks it with a low, “Better than being alone?”

You nod. It’s as if all you needed was someone to distract you from the spiral of your thoughts.

He hesitates, that pause where he’s trying to express his feelings, and says, “It’s better for me too.” Another pause. Then, a little sheepishly, “I would have stayed up past dawn.”

You smile a little and tell him you thought so. You’re about to say more when you yawn; Ford shushes you fondly.

“We can talk in the morning. At a civilized time,” he adds, referring to how the clock currently displays a vivid 3:24 am. You suppose you can wait.

Finally relaxed, you let yourself melt against him, the texture of his sweater familiar against your cheek as you cuddle. It takes a while for sleep to claim you, but not before it does Ford; you hear his snores before you drift off to sleep.


	4. odd (even)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, assurance

“See?” You ask, putting your palm against his and turning it, just a fraction. Your five fits between his six, and you curl your fingers in to interlace them. You look back at him and tell him, just like you mentioned yesterday, that it’s perfect. Ford looks at your joined hands thoughtfully.

“I’ve never thought of it that way,” he says, a little distant. Then he laughs. “Is this what you’ve been thinking about?” He looks almost relieved, and you realize belatedly that perhaps your longing gazes after him (and his hands) had been taken for something much more insensitive.

Determined to correct this misunderstanding, you tell him, quite seriously, that hand-holding is very important to you, and you’re glad you’ve found the perfect man for the job. His smile just grows brighter.

“Perfect,” he echoes, then raises his gaze to yours. “I suppose it is.”


	5. just you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, a gift

His smile fades as the silence stretches out between you.

“What is it? Do you not like it? ” Ford sounds concerned that he’s somehow offended you, and makes to take the sketchbook back. “I apologize, I shouldn’t have done so without–”

“No,” You say, and he stills, giving you a curious look.

What he’s handed you is a drawing. It’s sincere – the strokes are obviously drawn with care, shown in the way he shapes your body, the line of your neck, the curve of your smile. His rendition of your face, probably the most detailed part of the piece, appears happy and full of life. A distant part of you recognizes his skill, but what affects you most is the realization that this must be how he sees you. It feels impossible – to begin with, your eyes are too kind to it – but there it is, drawn with a loving yet honest hand.

You can’t hold back an emotional sniffle.

“No, it’s…” You blink back the tears that are definitely not welling up in your eyes, “it’s f..ine. ” Your voice fails you for a moment and when you finally look up at him you’re greeted by his bright smile.

“Well it’s, just a sketch,” Ford says, a little bashful but clearly flattered at having moved you so. He clears his throat. “I have others, so you can keep this one if you want.”

“Others?” But you know this sketchbook – you’ve seen the previous pages and they’re all interesting flora and fauna, nothing like this. You give him a questioning look. “You drew me more than once?”

Ford blushes, breaking eye contact.

“What? Nothing wrong with a man drawing his..” he hesitates, “lover.” You half grimace, half laugh at the term.

“No, that still doesn’t fit. Try again,” you prompt, much more comfortable now that your moment of emotion has passed, and as he does (even tossing out some interesting suggestions you’re sure he pulled from a fantasy novel somewhere) you quietly take out your page from the sketchbook, to keep.


	6. a distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, assurance

You turn his hand clasped in yours, brushing a kiss across his knuckles. The response comes almost immediately, in a blush that runs up his neck and colors his cheeks red.

“Darling, please. I’m reading,” Ford says, all curt and business-like, as if he could hide his blush with a stern tone alone. He doesn’t look up from his book, but you hear a few seemingly random page turns in following, almost as if you’d distracted him. No more kisses; you just hold his hand instead.

It’s nice, his hand in yours. His palm is broad and rough and familiar to your fingertips, and you run your thumb across it like you’re mapping it out, care in each stroke. Maps turn to paths turn to loops and before you realize it, you’re drawing hearts on his palm in lieu of kisses. It takes a moment but the particular shape catches up with him; you know precisely when it happens because you hear him fumble with his book for a moment beside you. You smile to yourself, finish the last curve of the last heart, and wrap your hand around his to press his index finger to his palm – the first in six.

The next two follow uneventfully. It’s when you’re on the fourth, running your fingertips across his knuckles and folding it into line with the rest, that the page turning stops entirely. You move to the fifth, and Ford closes his hand himself, interrupting your work.

“Dearest,” you hear him say, a little breathless, a little warning, but you just spread his fingers back open again, he letting you. You slip your open palm against his, fingers interlacing; you smile and press a second kiss, to the back of his hand. When you lift your gaze towards his you find him blushing still, and looking at you in understated amazement. You ask him what he needs.

“I, ah… Nothing,” Ford says, as if at the sight of your smile he’s forgotten all his complaints. He ducks his head a little. “You can keep doing that. I-If you wish,” Ford amends quickly.

This time his book is forgotten, and he keeps his eyes shyly on you.


	7. warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, predictably

Ford’s murmuring something in your ear, probably something sweet, but all you can feel is the heat from his chest pressed against yours, the texture of his sweater against your cheek, and the warmth wrapped around your body in the circle of his arms, hands clasped at the small of your back. It’s good, and you hardly care what he’s saying.

“We should get inside,” you hear him say, but you also notice your shoulder’s kind of cold so you shift a little until Ford’s warmth solves that, too. You absentmindedly tell him that he’s a really good heater for being such an old man.

“I’m barely past middle age,” comes the indignant response. And maybe in retaliation, or just in hopes of leading you back indoors, he takes a step towards the warm light of the house. In refusing to surrender the embrace, you stumble a little while following. Ford steadies you easily.

“I may be good, but the nights are cold here,” Ford says, trying to convince you. “I need heat.” You remember he left his coat downstairs in the basement when you called him outside to stargaze – or watch the fireflies, or hug, or something. The night had been young, the sky beautiful, and you had felt like being out.

You finally nod, and let him lead you back inside in an inefficient, ungainly way reminiscent of that of someone weighed down by cycloptopuses – or in this case, your reluctance to let go. You laugh as he tries to maneuver the two of you through the door without getting your shoulder caught on the doorway, then decide to take pity on him and let go, stepping across the threshold to join him indoors and closing the door on the cool air outside. Ford’s cheeks are red from the cold and you put your hands on the sides of his face on an impulse; predictably, it’s chilly. He smiles, and turns a little to press a kiss onto the palm of your hand. You follow up by leaning forward to meet his smile with one of your own until a gruff cough sounds in the hallway and you freeze mid-kiss.

Ford recovers first – weathering 30 years of unpredictability gives one an affinity for such things. Hardly fazed, his gaze doesn’t stray from yours while he gives a curt “ahem” and an “excuse us, Stanley,” turns a dial on his watch that he should really show you how to operate sometime, and makes a retreat to the basement, you in tow. Stan, to his credit, hardly bats an eyelash anymore and just waves the two of you off with a “yeah, yeah,” and you swear you see the hint of an amused smile on his face just before the secret door closes behind you.


	8. please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, pet play

His hands are desperate at your hips, your waist, clutching at the fabric of your shirt, tugging it so slightly down. You laugh, quiet, against his lips.

When you inform him he’s disobeyed you, in a murmur at his jaw, Ford takes a shaky breath and just nods, nudging his way back into a kiss. You accept it with a sigh. His hands inch up, your shirt slips a little further.

“Please,” you hear him say, a whisper of a breath, and you tug at the leash you’ve got wrapped around your hand, bringing his head down a fraction. His breath feels hot against your shoulder, his skin just as warm as you press a kiss to his cheek and ask him, as innocently as if you hadn’t heard, what he’d said.

There’s no more hesitancy; he repeats his plea, a little louder but just as desperate. You’ve felt it more than seen it, but you know he must be straining in those tight pants of his. You let the leash go slack again, and give him a sweet smile.

“Oh,” you whisper, watching as a shiver runs up his spine and his cheeks are reddened anew. His eyes, gaze cast down in appeasement, barely meet yours but you can tell they’re dark with lust. “That.”

Ford must take your response as a tentative go-ahead, or maybe he’s just too desperate, because he moves a little in your lap like he’s trying to find friction – as if you’d let him. You stop him with a hand splayed over his thigh, fingertips brushing his hips. It’s the most physical contact you’ve allowed him and he can’t stop the whimper that slips past his lips.

“You’ve already disobeyed me once,” you begin, ever aware of the heat of his hands through the thin fabric of your shirt. You wind the leash another loop around your palm, drawing him just that much closer. “I can’t afford much leniency.”

You watch him draw his next shaky breath, then give him your ultimatum: “My touch or yours.”

It’s only a moment’s hesitation before his shaking hands are at his belt, pulling it and his pants undone. Your touch is light and teasing and never enough, and while he’s ever hungry for your affection, he’ll find release sooner at his own hands. He tries to keep as quiet and still as possible, but it isn’t long before you’re cradling his head to your shoulder and he’s pressing in close enough to muffle the sounds he’s making. His stubble’s rough against your neck with every gentle buck, and his lips mouth your name, the words familiar against your skin. When he comes, it spills over his fist and a little of it drips onto you; you stare passively at it. It takes a moment for him to catch his breath but when he notices, he hurriedly wipes it away with his sleeve and ducks his head with an apologetic sound. You unclip the leash from his collar.

He starts.

“Sor–”

“Don’t be. It’s fine,” you assure him.

“Are you sure you don’t…”

“I’m sure,” you remind him, for the umpteenth time. You don’t think he’s ever gotten used to this arrangement. You take pity on his concerned expression, however, and ask him for just one more kiss to help him feel like he’s earned this. He’s pliant in your hands.

“Was I good?” Ford asks, once you part. Your smile comes easy.

“Very good,” you say, running your fingers through his hair; you can see he’s tempted to let his eyes flutter closed, but he still manages to gaze at you through half-lidded eyes.

“Such a good boy,” you think. And realize you had said aloud when his shy smile turns into an eager one.

“Come on,” you say, hoping he hadn’t noticed the slip-up was unintentional – though his growing smile said otherwise. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”


	9. a taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, pet play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What about Ford putting his fingers in your mouth? Not all at once or anything, just a taste at first. Once you start sucking on it, another one comes knocking on your lips. With two he can play with your tongue. What if you had to tug on his leash once he starts getting too cocky and shoving another finger? You’ll have a humbled, twitching ford land in your chest."  
> not exactly that, but close enough, right?

He doesn’t have permission – his touch is cautious, his hand at the side of your face, thumb teasing at your lower lip – and only when you open for him (amused, wanting to see what he’ll do) does he slip a finger inside.

You accept it, sure, rolling your tongue over it to get a breath out of him, but your eyes are on his expression, a combination of curiosity and focused gaze, that wonders at why you’d permit him, and how much more you’ll allow. He adds another finger, which you take too, and as he plays with the sensation of your tongue his look like he’s acting on borrowed time fades away into pure concentration. You almost imagine he’s taking notes – subject responded well to one; accepted two without further prompting; will follow with–

–and there it is, him trying to add a third. You grin around his fingers, stilling him with a gentle bite, and tug on his leash; he gives instantly, following it towards you until the leash falls slack again. His hand leaves your mouth empty again and his eyes meet yours, humbled and looking almost dazed at how fleeting the treat he’d been given was. A flush has risen in his cheeks – from what, exactly, you don’t know, but the look suits him. You pet him, and as he leans into your hand, eyes falling closed, you give him the promise of more…later. treats are only so in moderation, after all.


	10. sour, sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stan, finally

“I’m not going soft,” Stan insists, though he’s hugged you around your waist and pressed the side of his face to your chest and is letting you pet him, run your fingers through his hair, and coax little involuntary sounds from him he’d never let anyone else hear. “I’m just– doing this for you. Because you’d complain.”

You smile, the height you’re given from your position in his lap letting you see the way he blushes up to his ears as he says so.

“Sure, Stan,” you say, light and noncommittal in a way that makes him hold you a little tighter in response, like he always does when you let him know that you know he doesn’t mean it. Stan’s never poured his heart out to you, not in plain terms; you get the feeling he never will, and that’s fine by you. Though it can be a bit of a handful sometimes, you’ve come to find that he’s a delightful, secretly mushy handful, who deserves a tender touch or two. Swept by a sudden wave of fondness for the old man in your arms, you give him a kiss atop his head out of pure sentiment.

He grumbles an old man grumble from where his head rests just below your chin. You laugh, and he makes the same sound again.

“You’re perfect,” you tell him, as if you hadn’t said this five times over and meant it every time. “An absolute treasure.”

“‘Course I am, sweetheart,” comes his reply, and you can almost imagine he’s wearing a confident, self-assured look on his face to match the tone of his voice, if not for a hint of a renewed blush at his ears and the way he “subtly” tries to hide his face from your sight. You pretend not to notice, and gift him another kiss, instead.


	11. close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, cuddling

“Touch me,” Ford says, voice quiet and barely there, his hands on your knees, a pleading gaze meeting yours as he kneels on the floor before your seat on the bed. His restraint has left those words, a request that’s taken him so long to make.

You reach out and run your fingers through his hair, curving around the back of his head and staying there; his eyes fall closed with a surprised sigh, almost trembling with effort to not move into your touch, as if he were afraid doing so would have it taken away.

“Here,” you say, prompting him to open his eyes and meet yours in an attentive look. “Show me what you want.”

At his direction you let your legs part so that he can slip between them and wrap his arms around your waist, resting his head on your chest. You hold him close to you, one arm resting loosely around his shoulders, your other hand running through his hair, playing with the strands at the nape of his neck. He lets out a soft noise of content, leaning bodily into you.

You ask, amused, if this is all he wants. He shakes his head, and you ask him again, to show you.

It’s all he needs, to reach up and bring your face to his to kiss your lips, your jaw, your neck. You let out a laugh at his almost-desperate movements, then reciprocate, with leaving lingering kisses to his lips, against his stubble, and a few down his neck, which he’s bared for you. Ford’s hands go next to your shirt, pulling and bunching it up above your waist, and would’ve slipped it off if you’d let him, but you stop him by his wrists and move to take his t-shirt by the hem and pull it off for him. His glasses are left skewed by the action and you remove them for him; they have no further use here.

His hands return to your waist, where your bare skin meets the gentle pressure of his twelve fingers.

“Want to feel you,” Ford says, voice almost broken with longing, and you understand. You strip, from the waist up, your skin meeting the comparably colder air. Ford’s still half-kneeling on the floor, and you sigh and bring him onto the bed, moving so that the two of you lay together. You tell him to take better care of his knees, or he’ll bruise.

“Been through worse,” comes the answer, murmured from where he’s rested his head just below yours. His unruly hair tickles your jaw as he snuggles in closer and you can’t hold back a fond smile. Ford wraps his arms around you, pulling your body flush against him, skin against skin and heart against heart, close enough that you feel every breath he takes and the shift of muscle when he moves. He would lose himself in this moment, if you let him.

You hold him in return. The moment lasts.


	12. yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, ford, ford

Lying on the bed, his warm stomach and hips against your thighs, Ford looks up at you as if you are, in this moment, his entire world.

It’s a powerful feeling. Your heart beats a little faster and you feel a rush when you direct him with the calmest of commands and he complies, all trusting and pliant under your care. You watch his subtle lines of muscle shift as he pulls his shirt the rest of the way off, provided with a little assistance from you. Without the shirt, your hands are free to touch, to curve around Ford’s strong jaw, trace his collarbone, and slide your hands down to his chest, to feel that rise and fall as he breathes and looks at you. His heart is under your palm – you can almost feel it, pushing back with every beat, and it’s while you’re distracted that Ford reaches out to bring you down into a kiss.

You let him. You take him, and though it is his hand at the back of your neck holding you to him, his grip around your wrist, you hold his heart and every move is yours to make. Another, and another kiss after, and you part, leaning back, leaving only a gentle hand brushing against his cheek in parting. A slight flush has risen in his cheeks, a warmth you can feel in your fingertips, and something unreadable has taken over his features as he gazes now, at you.

“I love you,” Ford says, whispers, meeting your eyes with a soft but resolute look. It’s his first confession with you like this; it’s surprising, and touching, and you let out a delighted laugh. You tell him you love him too – he must know this, but he still reacts as if it’s his first time hearing it, with a grin and a trace of wonder.

“Really?” he says, and you can’t help but elaborate, pouring in a sincerity that would make you hesitate any other time. His hand around your wrist, thumb against your pulse – your heart is his, too, and you tell him so.


	13. sighs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, smooches

He’s so very gentle, guiding you forward by six fingers curled under your jaw, touch light as if he were afraid holding you too close would scare you off. You press into the kiss, wholly, bodily, pushing against him with a hand to his chest, the fingers of your other hand intertwined with his. His hesitance melts away and he runs his knuckles along your jawline, to the back of your neck, fingers spread across your skin, and you lean in at the touch.

The kiss is slow, thoughtful, and when you part just to look into his eyes he doesn’t say anything of it, only smiles, eyes crinkling. You realize you’ve practically moved on top of him, taking up half his original spot on the couch in a desire to feel closer. Ford brings your gaze back to him with a chuckle.

“I feel the same way,” he says. He smiles, and when you turn your face away, pink with embarrassment, he adds a low, “Let me see you.”

Under his gaze you feel exposed, in a way, but calm, assured in the knowledge that he’s seen your heart and accepted it, piece for piece. You spend a moment, and another moment more just looking back into the warm brown of his eyes. You kiss him again, and while he matches your enthusiasm he lets you lead it. His hand at your waist holds you steady, and you wrap an arm across his shoulders, curling around the back of his neck.

You’ve no doubt you could spend another half hour like this, but reluctantly Ford parts, leaving you wanting. He rubs a thumb across your knuckles, comfortingly.

“We should continue this later,” he says, with a look past you. You’re confused until Ford gives a half sheepish, half smug grin and says, “Evening, Stanley.”

“I’m just passing through,” Stan says, walking past with only a brief look at the two of you. You can’t quite meet Stan’s eye, still caught off guard by being interrupted, and almost wish Ford still wore his coat everywhere so that you could hide behind it. “You can get back to your slow romantic make-out when I’m far enough not to hear it.”

You press your face into Ford’s shoulder in embarrassment, and he just holds you, laughing quietly.


	14. sighs (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stan, now

“Quite a show you put on yesterday, babe,” Stan says, putting his arm around you as you sit on his lap. You can feel your face grow warm and Stan laughs.

“Better do your kissing in private,” he adds, gaze playful, “unless you’ve got a show for me too.”

“I’ve got one,” you say, boldly though you don’t know where you’re going with it. You think you sound confident but Stan picks up on it, as usual.

“Improv, huh,” Stan says, part amused and ready to see where this is going. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got.”

He sits back, settling into the armchair, and you realize you’ve got– completely nothing. You’ve no idea why you talked yourself into this, but luckily Stan seems to be in the mood to help you out. He makes like he’s thinking something over, a hand on his chin in contemplation (his other hand though, running casually up your thigh and to your hips, ruins the act.)

“How about this. I’ll give you a demonstration first – show you how the professionals do it,” Stan says. He grins, like it’s brilliant, and you’re inclined to agree.

You’ve seen him work, drawing customers in and setting them up hook, line, and sinker; here however, you’re invested enough for him to tease first. He meets you in a kiss, taking charge of it with such ardor that you almost melt against him, arms around his broad shoulders as he holds you. You almost regret just sitting in his lap when you could’ve straddled him for better access; though before you can move yourself, you’re met with another warm, solid body at your side.

"Enjoying yourself, darling?” Ford presses a fond kiss to your hair, six fingered hand at your shoulder. You smile up at him, and he gives your shoulder a comforting squeeze. Stan, however, looks exactly like someone had stepped in on his show and holds you a little closer.

“Don’t you have some nerd stuff to do?” Stan grumbles, clearly having hoped for a moment alone with you today. “Thought you said “science never ends,” or something.”

“I actually said "science never sleeps,” and by extension, the scientist,“ Ford says amiably. “In any case, I’m just “passing through”. I’ll be in my study if you need me.”

Stan waits until Ford has left, then says, “He came over on purpose.” You laugh and say you don’t think he did, but Stan says it again, thoroughly convinced.

 

(Later, Ford confirms; he absolutely did.)


	15. test drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stan, (ford), beginning a stanwich

“Hey,” Stan says, breaking the silence; you shift your head a little from his shoulder to look up at him, questioningly. “Still awake, right?”

You nod, though you yawn a little, too. His arm’s slung companionably around your shoulders, a comfortable weight, and though the television rambles on at low volume you barely pay it any mind, relaxing back against him and the armchair.

“So I was thinking,” he says. You give a fond, sleepy smile, expecting some elaborate explanation of his latest scheme, some– “How’d you feel about dating me, too?”

You’re not sure you heard that correctly.

“Nothing serious, just, y'know,” Stan trails off. You think he sounds nervous and he looks it, too, unable to meet your eye as he talks.

“Sixer’d be fine with it, if you’re worried–” He catches himself, swearing. “What am I saying, of course you’d worry, you two are always caring about each other and– you care about him,” Stan finishes awkwardly. He rubs the back of his neck. “Look, he said I should try, so just tell me you’re out of my league or something so we can forget I ever brought it up.”

“Okay,” you say.

“Okay, let’s forget the whole–”

“Okay I’ll date you,” you clarify.

“Oh,” Stan says, apparently struck a little speechless for once. Then, “D'you mind if I call you "babe"?”

"You already do that,” you say, smiling.

“Honey? Sweetheart?”

“You do that too.”

“Darling?”

You make a face. “That’s already Ford’s thing,” you say.

“Good, not my style anyway,” Stan says, now grinning. “So, babe. Wanna go for a drive tomorrow?”

“In that old car of yours?”

“It’s _vintage_ ,” Stan says automatically, mock offended. “Have some respect.”

Your laughter comes effortlessly, and so does this – all of this.


	16. warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, and nearly repeated chapter titles

It feels strange, the bare skin of your stomach against his sweater, texture almost rough as Ford moves a little lower. His lips leave yours to explore the rest of your body, and you feel his smile when he leaves a kiss just above your heart.

Romantic, you comment, and he gives a pleased chuckle that you noticed.

“Just for you,” he says. He trails lower and takes your nipple in his mouth, teasing you, leaving the other to the attention of his fingers. It’s cold on your heated skin and you twitch, hips shifting off the mattress to press up into Ford’s weight. He readjusts easily, catching your thighs above his and holding you there, still moving his tongue over you in a way that makes you gasp a little.

You catch your breath and tell him this is a surprise; it’s supposed to be his gift, after all. Though your tone is as level as you can make it your body reacts to his every touch – his hand moves over your waist like a direction and you follow, arching your back just so slightly.

He pauses, looking up at you, and you know what he’s going to say.

“You are my gift, darling,” he says, in a manner that’s not even intended to be grand or romantic or sweeping. It just is, a statement of fact, and though you know it it’s another thing entirely to accept. Ford shifts up to meet you face to face, sweater pulling back up across your skin. He joins your hand with his, palm to palm, fingers interlaced, clasping it against the bed and somehow this feels a level more intimate.

“You…like this, right? This is fine?” He asks. There’s nothing but concern and patience in his eyes; his warmth is all around you and you feel safe.

“Yes,” you say, feeling almost breathless just from meeting his gaze. You tangle your fingers in his unruly hair, brushing over that distinguished streak of grey. You love him, so much your heart is full and all you want right now is him, here, like this. He smiles.

“Good. That’s– good,” Ford says, and he’s wearing a sweet, silly grin. He leans in to kiss you, brief, chaste, on the lips – you tug at his sweater until he returns to give you a proper one. “I love you,” he says. “I want to show it.”

He already does. You hope he understands, the moments past midnight; your hand in his; gifts both awkward and sincere; you love it all, love him all, and this needn’t be the most intimate nor the most special.

He kisses you again, soft, giving, slow, his six fingers trailing a pattern over your skin, traced and repeated.


	17. ooh dr. pines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, as dr. mystery

“Dr. Mystery,” you address him, and he looks up from his work setting the exhibits straight after a day of running tours.

“Just Ford for you, my dear,” Ford says. He puts whatever he was fixing back in its display and greets you with a smile. “That title’s just for business hours.”

Still, he wears the title well, and you tell him so. Though you say it mostly for that flattered chuckle of his, it’s true – Ford has an undeniable energy as Mr. Mystery’s counterpart. An allure, you might even call it, though here in the after hours it’s hard to believe that this is the same eloquent man who sold nonsensical fantasies to an entire room of tourists. You notice that as you’ve been thinking this, Ford’s been watching you attentively.

“You like it, don’t you?” Ford asks, a little astonished. His flattered smile turns into a grin when your cheeks redden in response. “I could arrange a private show for you,” he adds, clearly enjoying himself. “Free of charge.”

You’re swayed by the offer but turned off by the premise, and counter by saying you’re not interested in being sold overpriced merchandise. He steps closer, slipping into his alternate persona with ease, and you find yourself inches away from the charismatic figure you watch at work every weekday. When you lay a hand over where his vest meets his suit, unable to help yourself, Ford covers your hand with his own as if encouraging your touch.

“Not that kind of show,” Ford says. His gaze is dark, voice is low and teasing and you’re very, very tempted. You take hold of his tie, tugging it out of place; the golden symbol on it glinting in the light.

“Alright, Doctor,” you say, stepping away. You lead him by the tie and Ford follows, grinning and eager to please. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”


	18. special

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stan, dreamy sighs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trying to spare people who came in expecting actual substantial oneshots. 3 for 1 special

✦ smooth ✦

“Want the tour?” Stan asks, leaning against the doorway in a way you know he thinks is charming (and inexplicably, it is). He gives the 8-ball cane in his hand a little twirl, gesturing to the area beyond. “I have couple of more attractions to show you…if you’re interested.”

You know that doorway leads away from the show front of the Mystery shack and towards the rest of the house, including Stan’s bedroom, which you’ve definitely “toured” before. Still, it’s cute, and you can’t help the smile that slips into your expression as you trace your fingers down his jacket lapel, leaning in a little closer.

“Why, Mr. Mystery,” you say, barely managing to contain your amusement, “Going to skip out on your other customers for me? I’m flattered.”

A brief look flickers across Stan’s face – you’d suspected he’d forgotten he still had other obligations today – but he recovers, matching your smile with a roguish twist of his own.

“Won’t need to if you decide soon,” Stan says. “What’ll it be?”

“..Any hints on what’s through that door?”

“Mystery. Adventure. Me,” he says flippantly, though on the third one he sneaks you a glance as if to gauge your reaction, hoping to sway you.

“You?” You laugh, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek. “I’m sold.”

✦ fun ✦

Stan nuzzles into your neck and his stubble grazes your skin not-unpleasantly. You stifle a laugh and he shifts his hold on you, holding you a little higher against him so that he can look at you.

“Hey hey, none of that,” Stan says, grinning playfully. “I wanna hear every sound you make. You be as loud as you want, doll.”

Happy and grinning back you tell him you’ll try; that seems to satisfy him because he returns to your neck, pressing kisses to it that make you squeak a little in surprise. Your legs are hooked around his waist, rumpling the lines of his show-ready black suit, and his strong arms support your position between him and the convenient wall at your back. Although Stan looks presentable still, an adjustment to the ribbon at his collar all he needs to make, your attire hasn’t been nearly as fortunate; you don’t really care. He gives you another kiss, smiling into it when you sigh against him and grasp his shoulders a little more firmly.

✦ i can't finish this ✦

Stan’s hands come up to your waist as you straddle him and he grins at the way you seem mesmerized by the sliver of his chest exposed by his partially unbuttoned shirt. You ask him, a little accusingly, if he’d been flaunting it on purpose. His hands shift a little lower, rubbing your side through the fabric of your shirt absentmindedly.

“I might’ve noticed you looking,” Stan says, with a sly look up at you. “Thought I’d give you a show.”

Stan’s grin is still as frustratingly smug as ever and you recall the past three days, three days, of him oh-so-casually flexing his muscles in increasingly obvious ways, making the buttons of his shirt strain under the tension. Now that he’s right before you, you can’t resist putting your hands on his chest, feeling the way the fabric stretches to accommodate him.

Your breath catches a little, and he notices. Of course he does.

“Well, I’m all yours now, sweetheart,” Stan says, in a tone that might as well be accompanied by a suggestive wink. He settles into the couch with a content noise and pulls you a little closer as he does so – unprepared, you end up pressing flush against him.

He feels so good against you; you try to ignore it as you steady yourself, cheeks burning in embarrassment, and yet you already miss the contact. The look he’s wearing now says he could watch you get flustered over him all day.


	19. combo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, whom i love very much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here we have a 4 for 1 combo to match stan's

✦ steady ✦

An expanse of scars on his skin, marks he’s been so brave about showing. He’d laugh and make each one into a lesson learned, spinning stories of times and spaces far removed from your own that teach caution, patience, progress.

But in a dark and heavy night, overcome by memories and non-realities, it’s hard to say now that each had its purpose. Harder still to say it helped, that it somehow made him _better,_ and when you woke up it was to find Ford clutching the duvet in white-knuckled fists, eyes focused on something in the distance, tears dripping down his face. A breath, a sob, and once he recognizes your face in the moonlight he hugs you to him fiercely, arms strong around your waist, pressing close enough that it almost hurts.

You hold him, too. You reassure him, as best you can, trying to keep a heartbeat calm enough for the both of you. Outside, wind blows, rain falls, and though it must drown out your attempts, you hope it helps.

✦ a little of this ✦

Ford’s hand curls over your hip, dragging you closer just a fraction; his thigh between your spread legs gives just enough friction to make your next breath uneven. He meets your kiss with a desire to please and you curl your fingers into his sweater, leaning in against him.

“Whatever you want,” Ford promises, eyes dark and intent on yours.

You don’t want much, today. Just him, his warmth, and a slow, slow grind. His eyes flicker down to where you move against him until you kiss him again and his eyes flutter closed. He doesn’t make any other moves, kissing back with an eagerness he keeps under control as his hands stay safely at your hips. Only his tensed legs against yours belie his self-restraint, wanting to touch, to help, to _take_ , and you notice with some pleasure that he requests it, first, in a whisper against your lips.

“Let me touch you,” he pleads, and you hold his face with a hand at his jaw, tilting his head up just a little. You think of his fingers and feel a shiver of anticipation…but that is not the tone for tonight. Tonight, you tell him to wait, and be good for you.

✦ a concept ✦

Ford sets you on the desk and his waist fits snug between your thighs, pressing against you as you kiss him, your hands on his shoulders as he holds you in his arms.

“Undress for me, darling,” Ford asks, low and gentle. You strip your shirt off, skin meeting cold air for but a brief moment before he’s there again, his shirt against your bare skin and bra as he presses close for another kiss. This time he embraces you only briefly, reaching around for the clasp of your bra before finally undoing it and slipping it off, with your assistance.

Ford cups your breasts, his hands big and warm, rubbing a thumb lightly over the nub of your nipple. He lowers his head to kiss just below your collarbone, smiling against your skin, and you shiver with the sensation as he trails his kisses lower. You feel his tongue, warm and wet on your skin, your nipple, and he giving it a gentle suck and then a light kiss that makes you giggle. Ford’s clearly fooling around here, grinning up at you, his hair messy and unruly between your fingers.

✦ actually,✦

“Y-your mouth,” Ford says, a little breathy with a moan in the middle. He’s trembling a little trying his best to hold still, legs apart with you between them and his hands oh-so-politely clasped behind his chair.

How silly; you wouldn’t use your _mouth_ on him. He isn’t allowed that. Your lips, however, are fine. You kiss his inner thigh to lead, feeling him twitch a little under you in response. His gaze follows your movements, watching you from his position against the chair. If you hadn’t told him to maintain his good posture, you’re sure he wouldn’t be quite _this_ polite; you’re satisfied with his obedience, and you let him hear it, telling him as you run absentminded strokes along his thighs with your fingertips.


	20. traces left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, secrets

Ford faces you, all loving and wanting with a touch of hesitance; you hope you’re not the cause, his fingers twisted into the hem of his sweater, tugging harsh lines that the back of your mind tells you will stretch out the fabric. You cover his hand with your own and his grip relaxes.

You tell him it’s okay if he waits. Of course it’s okay – and the furrow in his brow deepens, troubled, like this is something he’s thought over for a long while.

“You should know. I _want_ you to know,” Ford says. “I’ve hidden so much already, I–” he stops, starts again, “I don’t want to keep this from you.”

You’ve seen glimpses – slivers of jagged white across his skin, raised uneven marks in angry reds and pinks bringing images of some hard won battle – but only when he pushes up his sleeves to work, to cook, or the days where even the unflappable Stanford Pines trades in his sweater for something more suited for the summer heat. You know only the story to the lines that encircle his neck and wrists, and the scars say enough that you’ve never asked for the rest. You’ve wanted to see, but mainly because you wanted to see _him_ , not to pry or cause him discomfort. He gives you a small smile.

“Hold this for me, please,” he says, taking off his glasses and handing them to you, then pulls the sweater over his head and off. He scrunches it up in his hands, the familiar burgundy crowding against his fingers, before he sets it aside completely.

There is strength in his body, resilience. You can see the delicate shift of muscle in his every movement, shifting the history written in broken lines on his skin. The line of his neck tenses, relaxes, as you look, and you remember you still hold his glasses in your hands – you hand them back, giving him a reassuring smile when he meets your eyes again. Ford responds with a weary look of relief, reaching over to take your hand in his. He guides your hand to his chest, palm against his skin, and it feels both rough and smooth and not at all like the sweater you’re accustomed to meeting there. His heart is racing – you ask if he’s nervous. 

“Yes and no,” he says, with that trace of hesitance still. “It’s been a very long time.”

Since? You ask.

“Since someone’s seen me like this, and not to give medical attention,” Ford says. His gaze turns almost distant. “Human contact is hard to come by, too, as you can imagine.”

You can imagine. You think about it as your mind registers his heartbeat under your palm, as your fingertips trace a scar that must’ve landed too close for comfort. You imagine his travels, the dangers, the reasons why. And despite knowing it’s in the past now, far too late to change, you worry.

“That bad, is it?” You look up at the sound of Ford speaking, startled out of your thoughts.

“You’re frowning, darling,” he explains, small smile in place in an attempt to lighten the mood. “I can cover up again if you want.”

You don’t want him to. He’s beautiful, and this may be one of your only chances to see him like this, shirtless and soft and yours. When you tell him this – only the first part, the part you deem relevant to the moment – he squeezes your hand a little and speaks up.

“In that case, I have a request,” He begins. “It’s been years since I’ve, ah, felt anyone’s touch besides my own. I wonder….” Ford bites his lip, glancing away a moment.

“I wonder if I could ask you to…touch…me.”

Ford appears composed as ever but to your practiced eye you notice his face is slightly flushed; he rushes to amend, “Not in a suggestive manner, of course. Though I could! –If you want to.”

You find yourself regarding him with a fond smile. Perhaps he thinks so, too; that this is his only chance to ask. Giving him a chaste kiss on the cheek, you let him know you’ll do your best to let him feel good.


	21. familiar enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, the author

You don’t know him.

It doesn’t usually cross your mind, but these quiet moments tend to bring it on. The more you think about it, the more you find yourself looking at Ford instead of the warm hues of the sunset. It occurs to you that you don’t even know his favorite food, or favorite color, all those mundane things people usually ask as part of a get-to-know-me list. You don’t even know what happened in those thirty years, or before, or before that, in what you mentally refer to as the “bill era”. Ford speaks freely and fondly about his college and early research years, but anything afterwards comes in snippets, with the inconsistencies of glossed over events.

The nightmares, the glint of his glasses in a dimly lit basement, secrets and codes and ciphers – all part of a man you’ve glimpsed but never known. You’d heard Dipper refer to the journals almost reverently, and knew they must’ve held most of it, but since they were destroyed you’ve not seen Ford start a new one. From what you’ve pieced together, he seems happier for it.

Ford must catch you staring because he gives you a smile, at a tilt that’s almost self conscious.

“What is it?” he asks. Clueless, you think, to how precious he looks in the moment. You tell him you love him; he blushes.

“And I, you,” Ford says, as smoothly as if his face weren’t red and he weren’t looking undeniably pleased. He takes your hand in his, six fingers rough and warm, and in his gaze you find peace. Maybe it’s not about knowing. Maybe it’s about this, and the easy silence, and how it all feels. Whatever happened, before, Ford would tell you on his own time – or maybe never tell you at all.

You hold that thought, and ask him what his favorite color is.


	22. time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, future

“I love you,” Ford says, a whisper that mixes with soft kisses to your forehead, your cheek. Finding yourself enveloped in his warmth and the rich maroon of his sweater, you smile into it, he holding you in the circle of his arms.

When you ask what brought this on -– hadn’t he just seen you an hour prior? You’d parted with a kiss then, too -– Ford gives a shameless grin, touching his forehead to yours.

“Do I need a reason?” He asks, an amusement alight in his eyes that makes your heart warm and beat steady.

Your hand slides up, fingers combing through his hair, and his gaze softens. You suppose he doesn’t, but you don’t say so, only leaning up to give him a kiss of your own. His lips part to yours, willing as always, and when it ends it is a moment longer before he opens his eyes, as if he were still savoring your touch.

“I do have one,” Ford says, almost as an afterthought. Low, quiet in the space between the two of you, he says, “I’m lucky to have you.”

It’s a line rarely heard outside works of fiction but he sounds like he means it, like he _always_ means it, and Ford lets out a breath of a laugh at the way you turn away, emotional, hugging him back instead. Though he doesn’t need a reply you give him one anyway, a jumbled mix of love and compliments spoken half into his sweater, to which he ends up answering with a fond, _I know._

"I, ah, also have something to show you," Ford says. "If you could reach into my coat pocket -– no no, the inner pocket. Left side," he says, directing you. When you ask why he can't just get it himself he answers, "My hands are preoccupied at the moment," and flexes his fingers from where his hands are at your lower back as a reminder.

You find a nine-sided die, a paperclip, and following Ford's description you finally take out a flimsy-looking case, which you recognize as being the previous housing of the highly illegal infinity-sided die.

"Ignore the packaging," Ford says quickly, "though that _is_ a collector's item in another dimension. It was the closest equivalent I could find on short notice and possibly more meaningful than the typical velvet box," he adds, as if that might make up for it.

You have no idea what he's talking about, until you open the box and see the ring inside. Oh. _Oh._

"...Listen, darling," he says. There's a seriousness in his voice now, the kind he gets when dealing with "matters of the heart". "I thought over what you said, and today--" Ford laughs a little, sheepish, "today Stanley had some..choice words to add, as well."

"I was afraid," He admits. "You have so much ahead of you, and I didn't want to keep you from it. Somehow this felt like it would."

You look at him, into the dark, warm brown of his eyes, and close the box.

"When you're ready," you tell him, "the answer is yes."


	23. slow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, always

Ford’s always been a mysterious figure; one to chase down rogue creatures indoors, turn drop-kicking into a solution for any situation, and stride purposefully through rooms as if he were going off to save the world but only end up grabbing a sandwich from the fridge and retreating to who-knows-where, leaving you curious every time. You don’t know why but in recent weeks he seems to have actually taken a look around him and slowed down long enough to take it all in. He’s greeted you more warmly than usual, made more of an appearance around you, even struck up a fruitless conversation a few times. It puzzles you, really, until you think your presence might actually matter to him, and then you pay closer attention. Ford stumbles in conversation when you give him your sweetest smile, and compliments alone seem enough to dust his cheeks pink.

When the novelty of your attention wears off there is still his shy grin, his laugh, and his wonderful, deep voice that you hear more of now that you’ve fallen into easy companionship. The basement is somewhat _his_ space, still, even though Ford now spends more of his time upstairs and in company instead of hiding away below. Memories dwell here, you think, and there is little space for you, but he moves some papers and frees a chair from a small tower of books and invites you there. You make sure not to overstay your welcome, but still you spend many an afternoon there with him, surrounded by a past that becomes piece by piece more familiar.

You don’t need to introduce him to the present –- Mabel has taken charge of that in the pop culture aspect, and simply giving Ford access to the internet has been enough to get him up to speed on the rest. Still, Ford asks you for your “perspective,” though you feel it’s more of a conversation starter than anything else.

You thought you’d be intruding on the experience, but both Dipper and Ford seem happy to finally have another player in their game of DD&MD. Dipper explains the rules as he helps set up, talking quick with excitement but also a worry that if he slows you’ll realize what you’re getting into and back out. The rules summarize to “you’ll get it when you play,” and when that crash course is over Ford fills in with bits of lore as he pins hand drawn maps to the cork boards they’d brought over just for this purpose. They pause for you as you spend a solid hour creating a character. Ford narrates your character into the existing scenario flawlessly, and as Dipper fills you in on the setup where they last left off and Ford beams at you and awaits your first decision, you think maybe they’ve put too much confidence in you. (They have, but you end the session willing to play more.)

Thirty years amasses many ideas but little materials or permanence, and slowing down after a life on the run is, for Ford, a time to make good on old blueprints. “Just one look” turns an impromptu lecture on design and manufacture, and when the words lose their meaning to you he shows you how they translate in life. He pulls over a set of tools and guides you in the construction of his latest prototype, and as he talks on, you look at him and grow quiet a while and you think, you maybe love him. Maybe. He only gives you a confused look after this silent revelation, and asks if you’re alright.

Ford’s offered no word for what you have with him, and neither have you, but this love paints all your interactions with him with a new brush and leaves you all too aware of his presence in relation to yours. You think, that his initial response to your attention was a fluke, that he sees in you only friendship, that his hand is so, so close to yours, resting on the worn surface of the desk as his other loops cursive in the margins of a notebook. You want to edge your hand closer and cross your pinky over his, like some scene in a high school romance, but before you can Ford curls his hand into a fist, as though to hide his fingers. You realize, belatedly, that you’ve stared too long.

The edge, it seems, comes at 4 am in the morning, meeting Ford in the kitchen as he’s on his second mug of coffee that night, and you enter the room all sleep-disheveled and blurry. His hair is as ruffled and restless-looking as he is, but still the glow of the thousand-year-light bulb hits him just right. He greets you with a three-hour-old pan of muffins and offers you one and you maybe tell him you love him as you accept. He freezes, and so do you, and suddenly this room is a warmly lit trap and it grows tight, almost suffocatingly so, and you realize it is because Ford has put down the pan and taken you into his arms, instead. You hug him back with one arm, the one not holding a muffin.

(Ford’s grinning, been grinning for what feels like a good hour, and you might wonder if he’d taken tips from Mabel’s guide to laughing for an uncomfortable amount of time if you didn’t know why and weren’t grinning along with him, too. His face is warm and you know because you put your palm to it, occasionally, just because you can, and stroke his jaw and look into his eyes and kind of let the moment sink in. A kiss seems unattainable still, but you rest your head in the crook of his neck and find yourself becoming comfortable with this closeness.

You wait for a kiss on the cheek and you get one. Ford waves you off with a mock-stern look that turns soft once you leave. Stan claps a hand on Ford’s shoulder and asks where he even got the guts, and leaves laughing when he hears you’d told Ford, first.

Almost a full month passes before Ford returns it. You’ve said so many times since, but somehow he’s responded with a wordless kiss or affectionate nuzzle every single time. The first time you hear the words from him you’re half asleep and about to ask him to turn off his reading light when he kisses your hair and murmurs “love you”. It’s not quite complete but you put it down as a milestone anyway.

(Ford seems surprised that such a small thing got such a response from you. “I thought you knew,” he says, like it’s obvious, and though you kind of did you’re relieved to be able to crush that last bit of doubt in the back of your mind. He repeats it, _I love you,_  a few more times for good measure until your face is warm from laughter.)


	24. this could require more research

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, in his early gf research years

You’re over him, his thigh slipped and snug between yours, bodies flush as he kisses you and you kiss back, twice as enthusiastic. Ford’s hand is casual at the small of your back, and when he readjusts his position below you on the couch that and his raised thigh between yours gives a friction you encourage with a slight gasp. You would’ve ignored it if you hadn’t repeated the movement again yourself, for some reason, slipping away from the kiss with half a sigh; you seek his lips again but he’s smiling, meeting your eye with a look that says he’d definitely noticed.

“Did you like that?” Ford asks, an eagerness in his voice. He looks so bright-eyed at this discovery it makes you blush in embarrassment.

“Show me again,” he says. You give him a mock-withering look but his gaze meets yours with intent, his hand stroking over the curve of your ass like he thinks it’ll prompt it again – or he like just enjoys having his hand there. You indulge him, moving against him again, and Ford holds your face with his free hand to watch your expression with interest.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, looking at you with all the focus he affords his research – though different from his research he looks far too pleased with the results, as if he’d found all his answers in your one response. You feel like you need to correct him, letting him know nothing further is going to happen.

“I had guessed so,” Ford says in reply, unaffected, and how his eagerness doesn’t dim a bit at this information surprises you; maybe you’d misjudged him. “I’m merely glad to be of use this time.”

To be of use– like a favor for a favor then, you think he means, nothing more, but Ford notices you’ve taken that the wrong way and amends, “Not like that, darling, I just want to please you. –Well, p-pleasure you,” he rewords with a stammer, and there’s a slight red in his cheeks like he’s surprised he’d managed to get the words out. “Whatever you like. I want to see you..enjoy it.”

For the first time this evening Ford looks almost nervous, worried that that might’ve crossed a boundary of yours; you assure him it hasn’t. You smile and tease that he could make a record of his observations on paper – maybe take a page in one of his treasured journals. Ford flushes at the suggestion, stammering something about it being inappropriate content for a future scientific publication, but from what follows you get the feeling that he might’ve actually taken it into consideration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's some [accompanying art](http://veusin.tumblr.com/post/148224533894/abt-this-hes-both-embarrassed-and-shameless-at) kind of


	25. a mmess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, coming

Ford’s waited for you all day, and only watching him undress for you now does his eagerness start to show, tossing his sweater away with a flourish that makes you hold back a laugh. You admire his strong shoulders, his thick torso, and run a casual stroke down his arm, following the soft contour of his musculature. Ford leans into you instantly with a sigh, flushing as he realizes how desperate that looked but seemingly past caring.

You kiss him, and his eyes on yours seem reluctant to close, to release the image of you before him, but they do and he melts, groans into the kiss, takes you by the waist and holds you close.

On the bed, you tell him, and Ford brings an arm up under your knees to carry you there. It’s not what you meant, but he grins and you laugh, despite yourself. He lets you down gently and crawls over you and waits patiently until you pull him into a second kiss. You can feel his hand on your breast, and the other cupping your face, big and rough but his touch light. Almost with hesitancy, you feel him begin slowly rocking against your thigh; you break the kiss, encouraging the little moans he makes over you with quiet praise. You trail your hand down to his belly and slip over to undo his pants, feeling your way to the waistband of his underwear. Ford’s breaths come a little uneven as you take him in hand, and you stroke; he sighs your name.

“I love you,” Ford says, moving into a rhythm against your palm. Your free hand holds him fondly at the nape of his neck, his hair thick and familiar between your fingers, and he gives you a kiss to the corner of your mouth (a miss).

“You’re amazing,” he continues, not talking about your touch now or the skill in your fingers and wrist. “You’re – a-ah–” You kiss his chin, all you can reach when he arches into this. Another stutter and Ford falls back into your rhythm, gravitating back to you, still compliments on his lips though his kisses just quite miss.

As you guide him to the edge his eyes slip closed, surrendering his view of you for an embrace, his weight on you heavy and warm and spent; you hold him. You press kisses to his neck and after a minute, murmur that you still have his come on your hand, and you thought he hated a mess.

His resulting blush is obvious. "I’ll get a cloth,“ Ford says, propping himself up off of you and scooching off the bed. You lay alone for all of 3 seconds before he rushes back, cloth in hand, fully ready to return to cuddling. Watching as he cleans up and even kisses your hand when he’s done with it, all you feel is a complete fondness in your heart.


	26. classic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a date with two stans

Stan nudges you on your left and nods towards the scenery.

“Pretty, right?”

“Pretty deadly,” Ford interjects on your right, in the middle of making a quick pencil sketch to ink later. “What’s with your sudden interest in scenery anyway?”

“Thought they’d enjoy the beauty of nature, or somethin’. Just trying to keep things going while you’re busy drawing your plant.”

“It is nice,” you say, though the crouching and the need to hide behind dense foliage to avoid potentially-hostile foliage made everything but the scenic view unpleasant. “Though not exactly dinner and a movie.” Ford gives you a quick apologetic look.

“I know, but I realized this is the only window of time I have to see the local flora in bloom for at least three weeks,” he says. “This pocket of the forest seems to operate in a whole other time. I’ve yet to find how it differs from ours, but it’s faster, at least – the changing of the seasons should give a rough marker to go by.”

“Oh hey, looks like your time’s up, sixer,” Stan says, and you watch with him as the blooms begin closing one by one. The vibrant colors disappear in an impressive sweep before a low fog rolls in, bringing a chill that makes you shiver. The mood seems to change with it, and Ford stands up.

“I’d forgotten "winter” was probably next,“ he says. "Quotations around winter because it’s not exactly– well. Need a hand?” Ford asks, but not before Stan has already pulled you up to your feet. Ford puts his offered hand away awkwardly, along with his journal.

“Well, we missed the movie, but we’ve got popcorn and a TV back at the house,” Stan says, looking out over the way back. “This date’s still got a chance.” He smiles at you, bright enough that it seems to dispel the feeling of unease that’s settled in the air, and you give a tentative smile back. Stan leads the way in what you remember to have been an hour and a half walk, and the three of you begin making your way slowly back towards the house.

A little ways later Ford, behind you, speaks up.

“You look cold,” he says, and you realize you’ve been hugging your arms to yourself for warmth, not having dressed for an outing in the forest. “Would you like my jacket?”

It’d be more polite to refuse, but Ford’s lent it to you before, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want its warmth, a heavy and comforting one that smelled like him, too. This must show on your face (or perhaps Ford’s trying to match Stan for gestures of concern) because Ford shrugs out of it, draping it around your shoulders. You put your arms through the sleeves and delight in how they’re just a little too long for you. Ford puts his arm around your shoulders, too, walking level with you now, and turns away with a blush when you look at him questioningly.

“My journal’s still there,” he says, referring to the weight in the customized and twice reinforced pockets he’d sewn in. You nod in understanding.

“Have to keep an eye on your research,” you say. You take the hand Ford’s put over your shoulder and encourage him with a slight pull to hold you more closely to him. He does and you smile. “Of course.”

Your pace slows and so does Ford’s, walking together like this, and you look up to see Stan having made more substantial progress, already waiting for you a stretch further down the rarely trodden path.

“Sixer’s making the popcorn,” Stan calls as you approach. “‘Cause he’s already taken my date _and_ my moves.”

“You don’t even have a coat to offer,” Ford points out. It’s true; Stan’s in his usual t-shirt and jeans, and though the material of his shirt is a little thin he doesn’t seem to be affected by the chill.

“Yeah but I could’ve taken off my shirt, and then I could flex, and then they’d swoon into my arms, saying “Take me now,”” Stan says, grinning. “That’s what happens, right?" You laugh and take Stan by the arm when you approach, so that the three of you walk side by side, you between them.

“Why don’t you try it when we get back and find out,” you say, sending a sly and amused look at him. Though Stan replies with confidence he seems to blush under your gaze, enough that it almost mirrors Ford’s.


	27. needy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, what a good pet

You find him, alone, moaning your name in his dimly lit bedroom. The door casts a line of light as you push it open to lean expectantly against the door frame.

(You’d come home early, and on the list of things you expected to find Ford doing, this wasn’t the first. After all, didn’t he have a new project he was working on this week? Still, he called for you, and you would answer.)

“Thinking of me,” you observe, secretly pleased. He bites his lip, his face still flushed and sweaty and betraying a hint of embarrassment as he self-consciously tries to tug the neck of his sweater up to hide his collar. It doesn’t work.

“I wanted you,” Ford says, a little hoarse, voice heavy with longing. On that thought his hands inch tentatively lower, back towards the undone waistband of his pants. You step closer and his hands draw back again, finding his self control.

“You know how to ask for it,” you say, stepping around the bed to approach him. He declines it with a shake of his head, surprising you. You ask if he’d rather pine alone in the dark, but he refuses that, too.

“No, I– I don’t..you wouldn’t…” He stops, looking conflicted, and mumbles something about mutual arrangement and enjoyment and don’t want to make you. It takes you a moment to put it together and realize, _oh_. He tries to hide himself, cheeks burning in shame.

“Oh, you sweet, sweet man,” you say, just above a whisper. You brush a hand against his cheek in a soft caress; he can’t help but lean into it, sighing. “You didn’t want to ask this of me. Were you sparing me?”

A nod, and a whimper in response. You smile.

“What a considerate pet you are,” you murmur, running your fingers through Ford’s hair, gently running your nails against his scalp. He’s quietly eager, glad of your praise. It’s a combination of renewed confidence and your closeness that brings him to move his hands back to his still-clothed cock, hoping to return to that building pleasure. You stop him with a word.

“Let me,” you say, and he surrenders to you.

Even as he tries to hide it, Ford anticipates your touch, nearly trembling as you trail your other hand down his chest, his stomach, brushing past the material of his sweater to touch bare skin and lower, to the dark, gray curls of his pubic hair. You keep eye on his expression, watching him follow your movements as your fingers slip below his waistband, taking him in hand. Ford’s soft intake of breath is audible in the quiet room, along with rustle of the bed sheets as you climb onto the bed for a better angle to admire him with. You make one lazy stroke, to start, and already he leans into you.

Holding him steady against you, you murmur his praises as you move, pace slow and methodical. Ford’s so very needy today, his hand cupping the side of your face, the back of your neck, pulling you into kisses which you allow him with a smile. It’s a slow build, but one you take satisfaction in, watching the way he reacts to your touch, letting slip pleas he wouldn’t usually allow himself. When Ford grows impatient with your pace, curving his hand around yours as if to speed you up, you leisurely tilt his head back by his collar and kiss your way down his jaw, delighting in his breathy moan when you tease him that patience is a virtue. Still, you let him guide you into his desired pace, his movements rushed and jerky compared to yours as he reaches his limit.

He comes sticky on your fingers; even without you asking him Ford takes your fingers into his mouth to lick clean, letting you go when you’re satisfied. You’re impressed, and he, in return, is happy that you are.


	28. doctor please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, barely qualifying as roleplay

Ford sits at the side of your bed and leans over you, managing to look serious while holding back a barely hidden smile on his lips.

“You say it aches? Show me where,” he directs. You know he means where you want his attentions, and you can’t quite face him as you bring a hand to your breast, mumbling that that’s where it “hurts”. Ford puts his hand there, action confident but you can see him blushing.

“I-I see,” Ford says, and his intent gaze upon you is more than enough to make it literal. “Well, I have twelve doctorates; one of them must be applicable.”

He pushes up your shirt next, bolder than you thought he’d be (and by the expression on his face, bolder than _he_ thought he’d be, too). You don’t mind, but he gives an explanation anyway, as professional-sounding as he can manage.

“I can’t work through your shirt, darling, I need to see exactly what I’m working with,” Ford says, admirably committed to the scenario’s flimsy pretense. You let him take your shirt off, and your bra follows. You think he’ll move forward now but Ford holds a moment, gazing upon you; his demeanor holds an awe and a bit of speechlessness that would be more appropriate for the first time you’d lain like this before him and not the fifth, but you’re still flattered.

Ford, you remind him, eventually. He blinks.

“O-oh. Yes, how perfect,” Ford says, actually complimenting your breasts. You can feel your face grow warm but his is already more completely reddened, despite his surprisingly even tone. “A, ah, good size and slope. I’ll just,” he trails off, his hands finally on your bare skin and breast, rubbing the nub of your nipple between his rough fingers with just enough pressure for a light jolt of pleasure.

“Better?” He asks, watching for your reaction, and you remember the premise and nod: a little better.

“Then this?” He leans in to give your other breast attention from his tongue, giving your nipple an experimental suck and swirl. He’s warm on you and you feel more of that same pleasure again; you want to close your eyes to it, hold his head to you and just feel it, let him take care of you, but all you venture is a quiet, short, “much better” as you keep your hands to yourself. To your disappointment, he leans back, keeping only his hands on you now. 

“Hmm. I think I’ve identified the issue,” Ford says, as seriously as if you weren’t enjoying his still-ongoing ministrations as he speaks. You ask what it is, mainly hoping he’ll draw his treatment out and put his mouth back on you after explaining.

“I’m positive the cause is aching need,” he continues, smiling down at you and clearly pleased with his choice of diagnosis. “Fortunately, you’re in my very capable hands and I know exactly what to do.”

You give him a flat look at “aching need” but can’t resist smiling as you ask him to oh, please, help you.


	29. lost time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, age

When you come home you find Ford waiting for you, though he seems to have fallen asleep in the process, curled up comfortably on your bed with his usual coat folded over your chair. A light sleeper most days, today is no exception; when the mattress dips as you join him on the bed he wakes, seeing you and after a moment of foggy recognition, smiling.

“You’re home,” Ford says, and yawns. With that sleepy smile Ford opens his arms for you and you lay down in his embrace, him holding you close. You tuck your head in under his chin, hugging him back, and let yourself relax in his warmth.

You suppose he must still be tired, and you don’t mind resting a while as well. It’s easy, calm, the gentle rise and fall of his chest familiar against you. For a moment you almost think he’ll fall back asleep like this, until he speaks, tone low.

“You know, I never gave much thought to settling down,” Ford says. “Never wanted to start a family. I didn’t have the time for it,” he continues, almost taking on a sense of melancholy, “and now I really am out of time.”

A lost opportunity, he makes it sound, and you hadn’t thought Ford might consider it such. He had presented it before as a deterrent to the relationship, citing it in as one of the cons of committing to him, but that had been the last he mentioned of it. You want to say something, but don’t really know what to say, and he’s quiet.

“Are you happy?” Ford asks. “With me.” It’s a touch solemn, reaching beyond the scope of this moment.

He should know, you think – but how should he, and while you have so much to say and so little of it prepared you say what you can. You tell him, you _are,_ and Ford seems to relax a little against you. He’s about to drop the subject – you can feel his intake of breath, readying a “it was just a thought, nothing more,” – but before he can, you ask what he’s really been troubled about.

He lets the breath go. A moment passes, and you wish you could see his face, see the expression he’s making, but he’s holding you tight and in the time it would take he would’ve already schooled his expression.

“You know that I’ve made mistakes,” he says, slow. Hesitant, even. “Sometimes I wonder if holding on to you is another. I wonder if your time is better spent.. elsewhere.”

He falls silent, then adds, quiet, “There is much I can’t give you, darling, no matter how much I wish I could.”

So that’s what it is. You take a moment and think you understand part of what weighs on him, now. You modify your hug around him to pat him on the back in what you hope is a comforting manner, since you don’t think he’d be ready to face you just yet.

It’s alright, you say. There’s much you can’t give him either, but the overlap between what is given and wanted is complete enough for you – and you hope it is for him, too.

“It’s more than enough,” Ford says; voice almost, slightly, wavering. You smile, and tell him for what it’s worth, you like that he holds onto you. You follow it up with a light squeeze to his arm through his sweater, obviously feeling him up, and he laughs.

“I understand,” he says. The calm and ease returns to his embrace, and you settle comfortably back against him.

(Later, when he is asleep and you find yourself too awake to stay any longer, in the moment before you leave you're glad to see him at peace.)


	30. quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, whose embrace might actually ease all worries

Ford cares for you, you know; he’d wait for you, you know; but you’re afraid you’ll never be able to give him something to wait for. You don’t want to disappoint him, you say, half whispered and ashamed. For a moment you hope it’s cryptic enough for him to brush off and you to move on but it makes a worried furrow in his brow.

"You could never disappoint me," Ford says. It's meant to be reassuring but there's concern in his voice and you know, he doesn't know what you're talking about, doesn't know what you mean. You've put this off for too long and though you feel vulnerable, half-undressed on the bed with him and afraid he won't understand, you steel yourself and tell him. You say, that you want to feel close to him, to feel that he loves you, and this is the only way you know how -- but you can’t bring yourself to go through with it.

When you say it like some obstacle to overcome Ford stops you. His gaze meets yours with a mix of emotions you can't decipher, then he hugs you to his chest.

"We don't need it," he says, quietly and a little muffled by your hair. “Only whatever makes you happy.” His arms are tight around you and you maybe blink back tears as you lean against him, face pressed to his shoulder, and letting him hold you like this feels as complete as any other act of intimacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if it's not obvious, i wrote this to be ace. jsyk


	31. new

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, in his college years (and new to this probably)

“I didn’t think you would,” Ford confesses, face flushed and lips parted, still dazed from the kiss you’d shared. One of his hands is behind him, arm supporting his compromised sitting position on the bed, and his other hovers useless by your cheek, wanting but too timid to touch. You forget to notice, instead enjoying this newly stunned and stammering version of Ford, a far cry from the one you’ve so often seen contesting professor’s statements (and in one case, derailing the lecture altogether). Sitting back, patient, you ask him to elaborate: “would” what?.

“Would feel the same way. –You do, don’t you? This isn’t just another dream, is it?” Ford asks breathless, looking into your eyes.

Giddy off disbelief and relief, you tell him you’ve felt the same way for a while; but what was that about _dreams?_ You only mean to tease, but his embarrassed and almost closed-off expression betrays his answer. Before you can correct your mistake, wishing him to stay beautifully open and communicative, Ford bites his lip and speaks, low.

“Dreams about you; about this. In the longer ones you– we– spend our time on the bed together,” Ford says, making a valiant attempt to keep his tone steady though inevitably running down to a flustered whisper. You can’t help a smile, and you say, light, that you’d like to dream of that too.

“Well, I can think of something better,” Ford replies, swallowing back his nervousness. His gaze is vulnerable but warm as you meet him in a kiss, and with each breath you take between you find yourself closer, and closer still, Ford’s hand having found its way to the small of your back, your body having found its way to fit against his, soft, easy. His actions are inexperienced but eager, and he’s a fast learner besides; you recline against his pillow and he follows as you bring him against you. It’s different, feeling the planes and curves of his body, the new information pleasant to register yet too much to memorize all at once.

Ford, however, is ambitious, and when he leans back his hands move to your shoulders, your collarbone, watching for your approval before moving lower and following the curve and contour of your body down, over your breasts, your stomach. He seems to hold his breath, subconsciously, and only lets it go when you give a faint laugh at his feather-light touch over your abdomen. Ford smiles, the first one he’s given so far that wasn’t out of some sort of nervousness.

“You feel better than in my dreams,” he says. And adds, idly, “my dreams felt suspiciously like my pillow.” You really laugh, then, and ask him back closer to embrace him, memorize the strong line of his neck, the feeling of his hair brushing your skin, his smell so close to you. His hands don’t know what to do with themselves when you let go so you take one hand in yours, and he goes red and almost – worried.

“Sorry, it must feel weird,” Ford says, the first time you’ve heard him needlessly apologize for anything. There’s a shame about him that you wish he didn’t carry, and his fingers twitch like they would love to fold over yours in return but are for whatever reason forbidden to. You cover his hand with your other, helping him hold yours completely, and bring his hand to your lips to kiss, too. He stammers.

“Y-y-you–,” he says, and you nod. Ford swallows, looking speechless and yet like he has too much to say. “I-I,” he continues, and you find yourself gazing at him warmly, more open than you’ve allowed yourself in all the time you’ve harbored feelings for him. He seems to feel this, too, and slow, hesitant, he leans in to kiss you, your held hands between you.


	32. studious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford, in college, and so very attentive

On the bed, in his room, Ford seeks your lips and finds them, pressing against you as eagerly as if it were his first time with you all over again – he kisses like it’s his only chance, like you might never allow him the pleasures of kissing again, like he must make the most of his last breaths against you. It is, on some level, flattering, and moments after you start smiling pleased into his kisses Ford draws back, wearing an almost petulant frown.

“You’re not taking this seriously,” Ford says, in a tone as though it were a slight against him. You ask him amused how he thinks you should respond and Ford opens his mouth to reply, thinks better of it, and glances away, as if in reflection.

“When you smile during this it feels like you’re teasing me,” Ford says, a trace of reluctance as he allows himself the words. You think you see echoes of something else in his demeanor as he adds, quieter, “I think I’ve been teased enough.”

Dismay creeps into the warmth that he’d brought you and you say, that was far from your intent. You like him, is why, and as you begin your words he meets your eyes again, face open and again curious. You smile to feel loved and desired, to have him in your arms, to tilt his jaw and bring him to your lips; you assure him, calmly and seriously, that he’s doing an exceptional job of making you enamored with him. That brings half a smile to his face, at last, and the affection in his eyes is one you hope you’ll never have to miss.

“That’s nice to hear,” Ford says. His words are brief but his warm eyes linger, and just as you’re about to lean back in, reading the situation as one that deserves another kiss, he instead says, “What if I’m looking for a response other than a smile? Awestruck, perhaps. Breathless. What’s the probability of that?”

You blink. You refocus, and you say, at this rate, he’s on track to have you there– in a few years. You laugh to see his surprised frown at hearing so but the next moment his expression turns playful, having found an alternate angle of approach.

“Then can we arrange an accelerated schedule, just for me?” Ford asks. You have but an inkling until he continues, easy, “Consider me your eager student. I’ll learn everything about what brings you there.” He leans in as he speaks, intending on returning for another kiss, until he pauses, just inches away, eyes now open and curious upon yours.

“Did…did your breath just catch? What was it for?” Ford waits for your response and in your reluctant silence your embarrassment grows, instead. He looks puzzled a moment more, then tries, in a tone almost experimental, “…I’ll _study closely_ , I promise.”

He waits with bated breath and wondering eyes until suddenly he leans back and says, with a triumphant gasp, “ _Roleplay!_ You enjoy it!”

You try to stay cool but your face has clearly, clearly grown warm. Ford’s grinning now, looking like he’s uncovered another clue in a mystery, and instead of returning to you he takes his notebook from the bedside table and clicks his pen into function.

“Or perhaps not roleplay. Being studied? _Examination_ ,” Ford says with confidence, putting the word to paper. He chuckles to himself, “ _A few years?_ I don’t think so.”

You ask, a little disbelieving a little hopeless, if he could maybe get back to the kissing part now. Ford looks up from his brief notes to meet your eyes, and sits up straighter.

“Of course. Research!“ Ford declares, putting his pen back in the notebook with conviction, and setting both aside. He moves back over to you, leaning back in at last, and he stops just short again.

“But first, _is_ it roleplay? I’m sure my DD &mD skills would assist–“ You put a silent finger to his lips, and he whispers against it, “Ah, _silent_ observation, of course.” He kisses your fingers, then your palm, then you.


	33. hey now (+3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, with whom i am still so very, very in love

✦ hey now ✦

He’s not wearing a turtleneck, today.

The cut of his new shirt’s collar is the first thing you notice after the early morning light, casting the room in a gentle glow, and after you see Ford, his back turned to you, mixing something up in a bowl. A floorboard creaks at your footstep and Ford looks up, giving you a smile.

“Awake this early? The world must be ending again.” Ford grins at his own joke before his expression turns serious. “You didn’t stay up all night, did you?”

You’re glad you can say that you didn’t – though you didn’t exactly sleep easy. You step forward to lean against the counter by his side and Ford looks back to his bowl of (pancake?) batter, mixing it a little faster now.

It had captured your attention before and it is unusual to see the full line of his neck now, up close, to take in the sight of the bare skin that is so often denied you, to be able to see his jaw tense and tendons shift in response to– hold on, why is he tense? You look to his face and there is a furrow in his brow, a faint nervousness in his eye that you wouldn’t have been able to detect a year ago. He swallows, preparing to speak, and watching him you realize you hadn’t noticed how the turtleneck had hid this fraction of his body language, too.

“I’m glad you’re up alone,” Ford says, speaking down at the bowl of pancake batter. He doesn’t look to you. “You may have noticed something different about me today.”

That’s easy. It’s the absence of his turtleneck, and in its stead the presence of a casual yet dignified button-down shirt, of which the first two buttons had been left undone. His sleeves are pushed up to the elbow in a manner that suggests the joint prioritization of both haste and utility, and you find yourself smiling to see him making use of the other 70% of his wardrobe. He glances to you, and meets your smile with his own, brief, but shakes his head.

“Take– ah, take a closer look,” Ford says. So it isn’t the shirt.

It would be your pleasure, and your expression must say so because he flushes a barely discernible reddish-pink. He lets his whisk fall against the mixing bowl and turns towards you, meeting your eye and yet not as your hands come up to caress first his jaw, of course, and then drift down his neck, exploratory, gentle. You coax him to face you fully and as he does, there it is– a mark on his neck, previously hidden from your view. Brushing over it with your fingers, you discover its vibrant colors and cheerful lines and Ford’s blush deepens as you read its words to yourself. You grin at him and tell him you love it.

“It’s one of my greatest regrets,” Ford says. You tell him he could get it removed but he shrugs, giving a reluctant, “It’s seen me through a fair share of trouble.”

You ask Ford if he even likes it or not and he looks, for a solid moment, serious in thought.

“In its own way, it _is_ a memento,” Ford says eventually, “I can’t find it in me to get rid of it.”

He’s just as sentimental as his twin, and you say so fondly. Ford looks to you for a tender moment before clearing his throat with a sudden  _ahem_  and turning back to the mixing bowl.

“I should finish making breakfast,” Ford says, having shared enough of his embarrassments for the morning. “You can see the rest in the evening.”

✦ ???= ✦

You hide your smile in your arms and Ford on your screen seems to straighten up as you do.

“I don’t  _need_  to do this right now,” he says, a little miffed but only from embarrassment. The camera shifts and you see a little more of his face than his hand, his expression stern but cheeks reddened. “I only happened to be, ah, in the mood – a look over my pending research notes should discourage me enough to get back to work.”

You ask him not to. His responses are endearing, to be honest, and when you say this his frown deepens in an attempt to hide the fond expression peeking out behind it. 

“Well. At least let me see your face as you watch,” he says. He adjusts the camera back to where it was before, its frame capturing a view of his jawline, usual red turtleneck, and a peek of his hand resting on his thigh, as the rest of the lab fades into cluttered greys behind him. You’re settled comfortably on your own bed, though as you watch him push up the edge of his sweater over his muscled stomach you almost wish you were there by him. 

“Speechless already, I see,” Ford says to your attentive quiet as you watch him follow this up by pushing his coat out of the way, the tan fabric now framing his chest in a way he knows you like. You can’t see his eyes but you can see his mouth, curved into an easy smile; you mention that he needs a better camera setup next time, to let you see the whole of his face. He laughs, embarrassed.

“I, ah, set it up this way on purpose,” he says, giving you a shy grin. You can only imagine the look in his eyes; maybe bashful, maybe mischievous. “Perhaps that can change…later. Once I get started."

✦ ,,,,;;;;,;,;,;, ✦

“You have me as long as you wish,” Ford says. There’s a deep sincerity in his gaze that makes you look away and you do, saying he sounds like he stepped out of some romance novel. He laughs.

“A good one, I hope,” is Ford’s response. He’s smiling, an understanding there that almost makes your heart skip its beat; you resist the urge to glance away again and instead take his hand, one action that’s easier than acknowledging the depth of his feelings for you, or having to face your own – your own, that extend farther than you’ve dared look. You think, he’d make anything good for you, and find that you actually trust that if you told him he’d take it without jest.

Instead you condense your responding affection and emotion and almost-possessiveness into a distracted nod, and step in closer, hoping for a hug that he gives with wordless warmth.

✦ well enough ✦

Ford lays on the bed beside you, warm and content, and though it has grown late and you tired, you’re reluctant to let the conversation go. Sleepy as you are, you’re comfortable, and you answer Ford with an ease and lack of self-consciousness that only this hour can give you.

“Mm, fair point,” Ford says, looking across the pillow to you, a tender quality in his gaze. “But how much do you love me?”

You don’t even have to think. As much as the amount of stars in existence, you say, or akin to how the universe grows ever more. You gesture with this one, raising your arm to demonstrate the immensity, and Ford chuckles.

“I have one better,” he says. Ford motions for you to lean in close, and you do. “I love you as much as you love me, plus one.” He grins, having secured a forever upper hand, and though you laugh you tell him you feel  _cheated_. He gazes at you, a moment, and his tone grows a deeper kind of sincere.

“Comparisons can’t say enough,” Ford says. His hand comes to your cheek, in a gentle touch. “I can only hope my actions communicate the depth of my feelings for you. Do you know?” Ford asks, looking into your eyes. “Have I done well enough?”

Of course he has. You know it better now than you would’ve hours earlier; you can feel it, you say, in moments like this. You don’t see his reaction, instead tired enough at this point to let your eyes fall closed, but he grows quiet in a way that’s halfway between assured and thoughtful. It is another two moments, long and quiet with only breaths to fill the silence, and then Ford moves himself closer, to bring his arm around you and hold you, close. If he murmurs anything to you – loving, sincere – it’s lost to your dreams.

 


	34. i wrote this instead of reading through the rest of journal 3: special edition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, who i wish would embrace me tenderly for a very intimate hour..

“Do I detect a hint of jealousy in your voice?” Ford asks, not teasing, only curious. The purity of his inquiry makes you a little ashamed of the jealousy in your thoughts and you lie, denying it. He steps closer, towards where you sit in his chair, and you keep your gaze carefully away.

“It’s only a plaidypus,” Ford says, either ignoring your denial or conscious of your lie. “You know you hold a greater part in my life than one.”

Well, of course. But his work consumes his time and takes his attention, and having been kept from accompanying him on his recent ventures out (there was always something: he had to be quarantined for catching some mysterious flu in the forest; the gremloblin was back and he felt it was too dangerous; he’d stepped through the wrong door while in town and you’d spent two days in worry before he arrived on the doorstep; the list goes on,) and you felt, dare you admit it, neglected. It was a purely selfish emotion, you’d told yourself, and tried to dampen it down, but it’d resurfaced after having found that he’d gladly spent an hour to calm this creature when in the past few days you’d be lucky to get a solid thirty minutes devoted to the two of you.

“Darling,” Ford says, the word from him sounding as gentle and sweet as always, “If there’s nothing wrong, I’ll be downstairs." 

By dinner you had thought through and sorted out both the problem and the solution. The problem was, clearly, that you hadn’t had enough time with Ford outside of sharing meals together, or waking in the same bed (Ford would usually come to bed after you’d fallen asleep but rise early, waking you in the process). The solution, then, was:

"You want me to ‘hug you tenderly for an hour?’” Ford asks, clearing the dishes, and after depositing them in the sink, adds, “So you  _were_  bothered by the plaidypus.”

You insist that the small creature had indeed needed the comfort– however, it would be nice if  _you_.. could have some comfort as well. From him. Maybe sometime tonight. You end your words trying to avoid his eye, and you’re just thinking that you know how much his research means to him when he agrees.

The evening finds you in Ford’s arms, as he strokes your hair and speaks in quiet tones, musings and comforts and ramblings alike. He leaves a kiss to your forehead, and starts on another train of thought.

“You always seemed unapproachable in college,” Ford says. “You know how long it took me to even ask you for the time of day.” You begin the word “one” just as Ford begins “three” and you stop, looking up into his eyes.

“It was three years,” Ford says, sheepishly. He meets your eyes steadily, finding the courage. “Granted, two of those years I’d left, until you showed up here, and– well, imagine my surprise when the tables seemed to have turned today, and you’d thought the same of me. Unapproachable.”

No– not unapproachable, you say, but silly. It was silly of you to want his time or embrace simply because you’d missed it for a while, and you’d kept to yourself for that. What was a few days without, really?

“Everything,” Ford answers for you, tone light and easy. “A huge loss, because my arms are, quote, incredibly tempting.” You smile, and he kisses you, soft and leisurely, until your back meets the bed and Ford’s above you, just gazing at you. He finds the words.

“How about I get back to work in the morning,” Ford says. His voice is low as he speaks and he looks as though he wants to become lost in your eyes, and you want to let him. “Until then, you’ll have me and my attention, undivided.”

You agree, and Ford takes you into his arms again, leaving you with memories of soft kisses in the morning.


	35. summer simmer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, summer

3

It’s been a few weeks since beginning your summer employment with researcher Stanford Pines.

He’d decided that he needed a secretary to organize his research for him to allow him more time out in the field and had hired you to do it, but really, you think he just needed something other than the company of his own mind, and while you had never actually volunteered yours the man got it from you anyway. You accompanied him to town to interview locals, listened to his rehearsal rants for coherency, helped patch him up after run-ins with his research subjects, and even stepped in as a test subject now and then. This secretary position of yours also came with room and board, which Stanford had explained away by saying that his house was “secluded” and that you commuting to work every day would be “tedious” for the both of you. You’d soon found out, though, that he works any hour of the day that’s available to him, and having you in the vicinity just makes it easier for him to call on your assistance in the off hours.

Stanford had, today, told you that you’d be coming with him to document some geographical oddities. What would otherwise had been a pleasant morning hike was offset by how he insisted on setting out at dawn, and how on the way there he had stopped approximately once every twenty paces to add to the accuracy of sketches of particular interesting flora. On one such occasion he’d caught you staring, and had flashed a smile and explained everything he knew of the plant thus far, oblivious to how it had been him that you had been curious of instead. His profile holds a quiet focus, one you can’t help but be drawn by, and there is a temptation in the line of his shoulders and the curve his jaw that you will never be able to touch. So gaze you do, and if he mistakes it for scientific curiosity, all the better for you.

5

It is a bright morning, and when you greet him by name in the kitchen he gives you an odd contemplative look.

“Just Ford,” he corrects at length, telling you this preference after you’ve spent over a month in his employ. “I’m more comfortable being called that.”

You call him, “Just Ford”, and he gives you an exasperated half-smile for the joke but it is a smile nonetheless. He brushes a hand through his hair, looking down at the stove as he explains he hadn’t really expected to keep you on for very long, so when you’d called him Stanford that first time he’d let it be. You, for your part, aren’t sure whether to feel insulted when you hear that he thought you couldn’t handle the work or flattered that you’ve handled it so well, but you are entirely sure that you enjoy this sense of familiarity on your tongue, and that calling your boss just  _Ford_ was an inch across a line you’d only ever dared to toe.

6

It was a throwaway line, what Ford had said, but it had sent you into a moment of disbelief which ended in annoyance tinged with anger. You suppose you should’ve expected it, but Ford’s words usually sat so well with you; they brimmed with information in fields you weren’t as thoroughly educated in as him, perhaps, and included a few pretentious acronyms, but were generally free of excessive jargon and never imparted feelings of intellectual inadequacy. You’d left him to his journal after it and though you’d like to imagine your response left him pained, he’d given you an hours’ worth of space before attempting to seek you out. You can hear the footsteps that herald his approach, and the careful knock upon the door frame that follows.

“I offended you earlier,” Ford states, entering the room, not quite meeting your eye. “I didn’t mean for it to come across that way. I only meant… I get caught up in my own head a lot,” he says, switching tracks, “And my br… I usually get brought out of it. I was presumptuous and self-centered and dismissive, and I’m sorry.”

Ford looks to you then, finally finished, and you let him wilt for a few seconds of silence. You accept it, then, and Ford looks much more relieved than he needs to be, and even tries to get out a compliment to your intelligence before your responding expression tells him to stop while he’s ahead. You tell him that he’s “smarter than you’d take him for,” give him a patronizing pat on his cheek, and take your leave.

9

“You do magnificent work,” Ford says to you, “but I think I need to fire you.”

You’re thrown for a loop, and you really, really don’t understand. Suddenly he laughs, forced and awkward, and says, “A joke! Of course. A terrible joke. Let’s never speak of this again,” and exits, making his way seemingly towards the front door, even though it is his own house and if anyone should exit after hearing a bad joke, it is you. (Ford generally prefers bad puns, though, which you will occasionally exit the house for as well). You spot him twenty minutes later through a window, pacing energetically outside in apparent internal turmoil, his figure in stark contrast to the calm fading colors of the sky overhead.

10

The moment comes at sunset, one of the last summer has to offer. You find Ford on the front steps of the house, lost in thought with his journal open in front of him, of which you’d seen some pages but would like to see more – not unlike your sentiments towards him. You sit on the steps, too, a little distant in case your company becomes unwelcome, and look up at the sky. Through its hues you like to think you can already see the stars, out there in the great distance beyond, and once you are fully lost in thoughts yourself, he speaks.

“I want you to know why I said that last week,” Ford says. His gaze remains fixed on the sky as he continues, “I’m finding it hard to maintain a professional distance around you. I thought it might be better to eliminate the professional part.”

Your heart surges, then it drops, then you ask why he changed his mind.

“W-well. You make it pretty clear that you…. I wouldn’t have a chance with you, and it was unfair to fire you just because I couldn’t control my emotions,” he says, voice rough from the admission. “I expected better of myself.”

You look to him, to the profile that you’ve been memorizing since those first few weeks of summer, to the curve of his neck as he gazes resolutely up at the sea of warm hues over the treetops, and take his hand. Ford looks down at it in shock, then up to you in disbelief, and then off into the middle distance as if expecting this to be an elaborate prank. You look off too, and say you hadn’t expected to be the one with better self control – you’d been drawn to him for a while, now.

“Two weeks?” Ford guesses, offhand, and when you correct it to seven he hides his sharp intake of breath with a subdued cough.

“That’s…remarkable,” Ford says, a little hoarse. “That’s, uh. Quite a few days. I…couldn’t tell,” he ends, sounding oddly disappointed. You laugh; you’re just that good, is all, and Ford gives you a familiar lopsided smile. He can’t yet meet your eye for more than a few seconds, it seems, and neither can you when this is so newly real, so you pretend to be fascinated by the dying sunset. In the background of your vision, Ford carefully leans in, inch by inch, until his head rests upon your shoulder.


	36. a stroke of inspiration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, who would probably be proud of me for coming up with such a terrible title. like, come on

 

You find Ford huddled over his work, impatient and irritable. His pen taps too many times against the desk’s surface before he finally scribbles something in his notes; when he sighs, his shoulders droop, slight, and the line of his back follows. When you bring your hand over to the back of his coat, just below the seam of its collar, he startles where he should’ve already heard you coming: all signs that he should take a break. You tell him so, aiming to coax him into taking a break for a while, but he shakes his head without sparing you a glance.

“This will work,” Ford says with the confidence of eight hours ago. “It has to.” His notes laid out under the light of a weakening desk lamp look the exact same as before, save for a handful of equations that have been neatly crossed out, but he sounds far more tired now than he did then. You notice, too, that the fabric of his coat is cool to the touch, and his mug of coffee is half empty and more suited to smoke from chill than from heat; he’s neglected to do much but sit here in a cold basement for hours, hoping for a stroke of scientific inspiration.

Wholly used to this and undeterred, you ask him to let you try one thing – and then you’ll leave him to his work. You find it a reasonable request, considering he’s hit a dead end, but Ford doesn’t see it as such until you slide your hands over his shoulders, and settle yourself against the back of his chair. His head tilts slightly back, eyes falling closed as if wanting to succumb to the warmth you’ve brought.

“I shouldn’t,” Ford says. He turns to look up at you, expression serious– but his resolve only melts when he meets your eyes. “I…tell me what you have in mind.”

Now that you have his attention, you say you have an activity that could help. Ford gives you a fond, worn smile and places his hands on his knees to stand up from his chair, but you stop him, hand laid light on his sleeve. This time you have something else planned, a different distraction than spending a leisurely hour cuddling on the couch. This time, you ask him to stay here for you, and Ford lets you push him back down into the chair without resistance, a hint of amusement and curiosity in his eyes.

Ford is seated with his thighs apart, as usual, and you step between them, your hand previously on his chest now moving up to his jaw, to his chin, to hold his face tilted up to yours. You look at him: his lips, the dip and curve of his chin, the shadow of stubble upon his jaw, the line of his neck, and the strength in the whole of him. You have to take a breath…and his lips part with a small  _ah_  of realization.

“This type of activity, then,” Ford says, gazing up at you with a hint of a tilted smile on his face. You feel his hands at the back of your thighs, and then higher..you steady yourself with a hand braced to the back of his chair. “It’ll take more than a proposal to distract me from my work, dear.”

You ask him what  _can_  distract him, although you already have a good idea. He smiles, and you let him guide you to straddle his lap, the room chilly enough that you feel his every touch as an intense warmth – or maybe that’s just you. You think you must look as flushed as you feel as you let your shirt unbutton and slip off your shoulders, pressing in against him, motivated by cold and desire both. Ford runs a hand down your arm, in his gaze a focus that makes yours slip, and you find yourself breathing a sigh against him, giving yourself to his hold.

“We could move this to the bedroom,” Ford suggests, with a comforting rub of his hand against your skin. Your fingers brush over his chest, trailing down over his sweater at a leisurely pace, and as your gaze follows them you admit that you wouldn’t mind staying here. You’ve lost count of how many times you saw him down here in this chair, at work, diligent, when all you wanted to do was push him back in it, watch him come to the edge in it, your warmth and his together. Even now you can still hardly believe you’re at this point with him, holding an intimacy previously thought out of your reach. To your surprise, when you look to him, Ford has glanced away with an almost abashed grin.

“You could have,” Ford admits. “I come down here to work alone, but I also found myself coming here when frustrated with my feelings towards you. I’d work them out here,” Ford finishes at an awkward lilt, face a little redder than before, though from embarrassment or enjoyment you’re not sure. “Despite the precautions I had in place, you almost caught me once. I, ah, your proximity to me resolved it before I could.”

You would enjoy the implications if those very implications didn’t send you into thinking about what those times must have been like, how he must have looked, pining for you in this dark room all flushed and frustrated and desperate while you likely felt the same longing just floors above. Your cheeks grow warm, then, thinking of him here and growing breathless, and before Ford can comment on your flushed stare you ask him– no, entreat him, to tell you more. He looks surprised, and then embarrassed, and then cautiously flattered.

“In my thoughts you did catch me,” Ford begins. “You would find me here, guilty in the act, as I voiced everything I could never say to you. You heard me moaning your name, unmistakably.”

You can picture it so vividly you wish that it’d happened, and as you run through your memories as reference you think you might recall the one instance Ford mentioned you’d almost caught him.

“You had every reason to do otherwise, but instead of reprimanding me, you stayed to toy with me. I could kiss you, touch you, only if I kept my hands from myself,” Ford says, and brushes your hair tenderly back, leaving two kisses to your neck as though to demonstrate; you feel him smile against your skin. “You’d seemed certain the trade-off was fair, but you’d handed me a glimpse of bliss. For those moments, I had you, all to myself.”

“And to think, I could’ve had you here sooner,” Ford says, eyes fond as they meet yours. You run your fingers through his hair, curving to the nape of his neck, and Ford’s smile softens at your touch; you kiss his hair and ask him to show you what he did in that fantasy with you. He chuckles.

“Well, it was different every time. You know me, I like to be  _thorough_.” His hand rests on your thigh, warm and heavy, and for a moment you long to hold it, bring it to where you want to be touched. “I had my favorites, though,” Ford continues, before you can. “Here, stop me if you know this one…”

His hand moves to your back, finding the clasp of your bra and undoing it, smooth and simple. You wonder where he’s had the practice, remembering still some of his fumbling moves of the not-so-long past, but then he kisses down to your heart, and moves the bra away to hold your breasts, kissing the tops of those too. You know this one and you don’t want to stop him, but he stops himself before you can encourage him yourself.

“Now, hold on,” Ford says, hand upon his chin in fake contemplation. “Should we continue with the reenactment, or would you rather watch me bring myself off? I believe either will accomplish your initial goal of getting me to "relax”.“ You blush to hear his inclusion of "initial”– it’s true, your intentions have shifted over the course of your encounter with him, but Ford must know what he does to you by now.

The decision he leaves you is a difficult one, truly. The turmoil must make it to your expression because Ford begins to gently lavish you with attention, using kisses, sucks, and gentle tugs in your indecision. You suppose that you’re making a very good distraction indeed and would hate to ruin it, so you tell him in your most steady voice that he can continue. Your voice hitches, though, just as he gets a skillful move of tongue work there, and he looks very, very pleased.

“Very well. Is my lap or my desk more comfortable for you, darling? –And remember, you can touch me all you want; the only restriction here has been placed upon me.” He’s teasing, and you remember then that your hands have been laying useless across the strong line of his shoulders, your arms barely contributing to holding yourself to him given that Ford’s embrace felt about as solid as anything. You place your hands at his jaw, a thumb gentle beside his lips. His lap will do, you tell him, adding also that his desk is covered in his work and you wouldn’t want to ruin it.

“I would sweep it all to the floor in a second,” Ford assures you, but lets you pull him into a kiss, his arms holding you close. Your hands move to the high collar of his sweater, pulling it down, and you break the kiss to shift your attention to his neck instead; his next breath leaves in a low moan. You slide a hand slowly down his chest, savoring the movement, and when your fingertips brush at last over the hem of his sweater, find his growing arousal under your palm. You tug his sweater up over his stomach, letting you see the softened tones of his physique and the gray hair that curves and curls to disappear under his pant’s waistband, and pull the sweater up again a little higher. What you seek is access and you take what you have gladly, lowering your head, lips mapping out his chest, fingers running over scars old and familiar. You smile to yourself, relish it, relish him a few moments more until Ford’s adorable breaths and murmurs and encouragement fall into impatience.

“Just take the darn thing off of me,” Ford says, breathless, then corrects, “Damn,” as though remembering he can swear around you. As you have a quiet laugh at that he pulls off his coat, letting it drop to the floor, and pulls the hem of his sweater over his head and off. He tosses the garment onto the desk behind you and once he is free of it you are there to meet him, with a kiss and soft touch over his rarely seen collarbone. Ford’s touch however is solid, decisive, and he brings you bodily closer, skin to skin, chest to chest, and modifies your kiss into one of his own.

“Let me touch myself, darling,” Ford says, forehead resting against yours, eyes grown dark and hand already moving down your thigh and towards his belt. “Let me…I know this is far enough.”

To let him would be to let him have his pleasure, but yours comes from seeing him in the palm of your hand, flushed and breathing heavy and full of anticipation. You stop him mid-way through undoing his belt, a hand over his, and push his hands aside only to work at it yourself.

Restrictions, you remind him; only one. You undo the zipper and curve your fingers around his arousal, feeling the weight of him in your palm, how  _literal_ , and he presses his face to the crook of your neck, arms tight at your waist. You whisper the thought to him and he makes a distracted sound that’s halfway between amused and impatient. You feel him, caressing for a moment the hard length of him, and then the curve of your fingers returns once more as you start into a languid pace, aiming to build to a tease and keep him taut for your moment of release. He lets you move, for a few moments, until his breaths are in their own sync with your stroke.

“Faster,” he says into your shoulder, and when you respond but not with enough he takes up a grip around yours, his six fingers wrapping over your five to move your hand himself. He lifts his head back from your shoulder but his gaze remains upon your hands moving together;  _your_  eyes, however, are on the ever-soft curls of his hair, the hint of sweat on his brow, the slope of his nose and the dark bold frame of his glasses, and his parted lips. You cannot help but want to press a kiss to his hair, and whisper endearments by his ear– and while now control is his the sight of him is yours, watching him for his concentration and gaze for the moment to come. His eyes flick up to yours and when you lean into him he is there to take your kiss; you take your name from his tongue as he comes, and you feel it drip over onto your fingers and his.

“Oh,” is the next word Ford speaks after your name, and though it is a challenge you find the will to look away from your intent observation of his face and follow his gaze to your body, instead. Ford tenderly wipes away the drip of come that somehow ended up on your stomach, and with the same hand takes back the sweater he’d discarded on the desk, wiping his hand clean. He takes your hand as well, his motions a little rough but well-meaning as he cleans it, and tosses the sweater onto the ground. You look to see where it landed.

“I’ll make do shirtless,” Ford says, as if in anticipation of your thought. “As I recall, you enjoy it.”

Your liking of it is no excuse for him freezing down here, and you say so with a tone to lecture, but Ford only meets your words with a tender if sleepy smile.

“You know what? I’m exhausted,” Ford admits. “I’ve been going at this problem for far too long. Whatever time it is, I’m going to sleep.”

He is about to just fall asleep in his chair but you tuck him back into his pants, and pull him up from the chair. It’s no place for him to be sleeping.

You accompany him up the elevator, to his room and to his bed. Neither of you having bothered to redress, Ford only kicks his boots off before climbing onto the bed, and leaves his arms outstretched for you so that when you follow him onto the covers it is simple to sink into his embrace. You’re not tired, not really, but you’re not opposed to staying until he falls asleep, so you enjoy it: the feeling of his bare skin and yours, and the sound of his heart by your ear. It lasts only moments, however, because soon Ford sits up again and startles you from his chest.

“Of course, the breakthrough I needed!” Ford exclaims, and takes you by the shoulders, moving you off of him and onto the bed as he leaves it. “I need paper– and lots of it!”

You say that you thought he was tired – exhausted, even. Ford shakes his head, rummaging through the nightstand for writing utensils and anything paper-like.

“Sleep can wait. Do we still have coffee? I left the last of it in the lab. Your expression says it would severely disappoint you for me to retrieve it. –Alright, fine, I’ll just write down an outline of the solution for after I wake up,” Ford says, and leaves two elegant rows of cursive on the back of a previously-crumpled receipt, instructing his future self on the solution. You glance over at the receipt where he leaves it on the nightstand, wondering if it really holds all the information he later needs, but trusting in his genius to serve him well.

–-

Hours later, you extract yourself from Ford’s embrace, go eat dinner, and return to work your way back into it. More hours later, you find yourself laying upon an otherwise empty bed, and Ford paces around the perimeter of the room with his solution outline in hand, restless.

“These don’t make any sense at all! Why was I trying to be clever? And what do  _bagels_  have to do with my equations?”

You watch him for a moment, then say that, seeing as he’d lost his solution, you suggest he retrace his steps and see about a second epiphany. You’re mostly joking, but Ford looks to you intensely, first to your face before letting his gaze fall over the rest of you. He strides over, takes your hands in his, and holds them gentle but firm as he kneels before you.

“Distract me again?” Ford asks, eyes intent upon yours. “I need some… inspiration.”


	37. buy 2 get 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, once, and stan, twice. the last one's ace for sure

✦ next level ✦

Ford sits you down, in his private study, and meets your eye very seriously.

“I think it’s time we took our relationship to the next step,” Ford says. Thoughts of what he might mean by “next step” run through your head and in your quiet he takes an initiative, betraying a hint of a nervous tremor in his voice as he continues, “I…I care deeply for you.”

He falls silent now and looks to you almost in a search of courage, almost in fear of rejection. Under his gaze you’re caught between a rising happiness and confusion– haven’t you known, even without the words?– and after a moment more you have to admit you’re not sure what he’s really trying to say. Ford looks slightly frustrated, though it is directed inwards, and he takes another breath.

“We’ve spent a significant amount of time together, now, and I think – I think we’re at the point where another word would be…appropriate,” Ford says. “And I feel that towards you. I–” he exhales, muttering, “This shouldn’t be so difficult to say.”

You find your heart caught in your chest as you, instead of guessing, ask if it’s…a four letter word.

“Yes! Of course, what else would it be?” Ford asks, grasping at your words with a mixture of desperation and leftover self-impatience. He looks to you, beseechingly, like he hopes you’ll put him out of his misery, and you could laugh to diffuse this tension but instead suggest that he write it for you, first.

“Wri…I’ve written it plenty of times. It doesn’t help,” Ford says flatly. And yet, he silently reaches for his pocket notepad and slides his chosen page to you. There, in his tidy script, is the love you were looking for. You ask for his pen.

“We’re hopeless, aren’t we,” Ford says as he hands it to you, and this time you do laugh. It prompts that amused tilt to his lips that you like so much, and without even writing you take his hand and say to him that you love him– simple as that. The pen and notepad return to a red-faced Ford, who you leave flustered in his study.

(He does manage the words, later, past midnight and mixed in with low words of affection as you close your eyes in his embrace.)

✦ rain ✦ 

“Don’t worry about me,” Stan says, after laughing at your attempt to include him under what little shelter the coat provides. Droplet after droplet scatter on his shoulders as the rain starts up in earnest, spilling and sticking his white T-shirt to skin. You don’t have time to watch; he puts a hand to the small of your back and hurries you along towards the shelter of the house, and when he deems you too slow stops to pick you up instead, an impracticality somehow justified to him by the sound you make when he does it. At least in his arms, one under your knees and the other at your back, you can cover both his head and yours from the rain overhead. You wipe a stray trail of water from his cheek when you notice it; he briefly scrunches up his face when you do.

“Got your keys ready?” Stan asks, maintaining an easy jog back towards the house. You remember, fumble a little, and hold the key-ring up with a triumphant jangle.

Rain comes down faster now, a dampened rhythm against a coat that was never meant to take this weather. You feel Stan quicken his pace until the sound of the ground underfoot changes from earth to stone to wood, hollow and dry and familiar. You expect him to set you down on the porch – you’re ready for it, even – but he gives his head a shake and smiles, as if he weren’t cold and absolutely drenched despite your best efforts.

“Go ahead and open the door, babe,” Stan says, and when you ask if it wouldn’t be easier if he put you down (you can feel the effort he’s exerting through his muscles and while you’re impressed, there’s really no need,) he shrugs and adjusts his hold on you, and you find yourself pressed more closely to his chest.

“I like holding you,” he says plainly. Then, “Open the door, would you? This nice and all but it’s freezing out here.”

Carefully so as not to fumble and drop the keys, you unlock the door (three locks; Ford is pretty cautious). Stan carries you inside, gives the door a nudge with his foot to close it, and carries you straight to the bathroom. Before you have time to question why you’re there Stan sets you down and reaches for a towel, and you remember he really is thoroughly drenched. His shirt, form-fitting to begin with, is just sheer enough now to leave little to the imagination. As he dries his hair it starts fluffing weakly back up, and once he sets the towel aside he pulls his wet shirt off (with some difficulty). You comment that since he’s soaked already he might as well take a hot shower.

“Trying to get me naked?” Stan grins in return, and when you move to the door to give him some privacy he adds, “No, wait, I was gonna ask you to join me. –Y'know. To save on hot water.”

Stan gives you his best “it’s just about saving money” look. You reach out to the door…and turn the lock. Wouldn’t want anyone walking in on the two of you, after all. You turn back to him smiling and find Stan’s grin is already back in full force.

“Great,” Stan says. “And if you need any help getting those clothes off, you know how to ask,” he adds, with accompanying suggestive eyebrow movement. (Despite that confident offer, though, he still flushes a precious shade of pink when you take him up on it.)

✦curfew✦

The first time you ask Stan to stay the night, you picture falling asleep on his shoulder with the tv on, dragging yourselves blearily to bed at 3 am, and waking up to banter and cook breakfast together. You ask, and Stan panics.

“I, uh, remembered I had a business thing to do back at the shack,” he says. “Important business. Real time sensitive.”

You recall he’d told you that he was “free all night, babe,” complete with accompanying wink, and feel the confusion come on. You’d thought the evening had been going pretty well, all in all, and you’d even rented a mix of monster movies and the old lady period movies he was so secretly fond of, but the way Stan is now grabbing his coat– and backing up to the door– and grabbing the handle– is telling you otherwise.

“I, uh. I’ll catch you later,” Stan says, finally managing to grasp the doorknob and turn it the right way open, and leaves.

–

Neither of you mentions it afterwards and it is easy to pretend everything is as it was before. But it isn’t, and it is evident whenever you enjoy the pleasure of his company past sundown. At 10 pm Stan glances at the clock, whistles, and excuses himself.

“Look at the time! As much as I love bein here,” he kisses your hair, “I’ve gotta go. Big day tomorrow.”

“You say that every night,” you say, and it’s true– while the words may change the time does not. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Stan quite this punctual, and it’s…odd. Almost like he’s trying to avoid something.

“Nothing’s wrong, is it?” you ask. “You can tell me if it is.”

“‘Course not.” Stan slips on a quick smile, the one that never manages to look completely sincere. It pulls at you to have seen it more often lately, and that Stan’s usual familiarity with you has been..restrained, with him pulling more of his physical touch away, noncommital. You’re worried he’s slipping away from you and though you don’t want to cling you don’t want to just let it happen, either.

“If it’s…with me,” you begin reluctantly, and Stan cuts you off.

“What? No,” Stan says hurriedly. “I– I care about you, you’ve gotta know that.”

You’re not sure you do, watching him gather his coat and leave, as quickly as though he were making an escape.

–

After three more nights of this, and three more nights of frankly terrible excuses, you decide to get to the bottom of it all.

You’re able to rush in and bodily block his exit tonight, and mid-step Stan freezes, looking as if he’s having one of the few moral dilemmas of his life. It is brief, though, because he comes to the conclusion that he  _can_  just physically lift his paramour out of the way, and it is in his arms that you’ve had enough.

“Stan Pines, we need to talk,” you say, with as much authority as you can muster. “And  _put me down_.”

Stan puts you down, but he keeps his arms there, as though he knew even a partial embrace from him could help ease your simmering fury. It does, to your annoyance.

“There, you’re down,” Stan says. “Thought I got that dilemma right.”

“No, the real dilemma is you running away every time I invite you over. Is it me? –Is it something else?”

Stan stands fidgeting, sweaty, with an uncomfortable grimace on his face.

“Stan, I need to know,” you say, trying for hurt this time, and it strikes right through his tough guy exterior. Stan glances down, avoiding your eye.

“…Alright. I guess– I guess we had a good run.” Stan takes a heavy breath. “Let’s sit back down for this. Might as well get comfy.”

You wait for him to make the first move, and when he realizes it is to ensure he doesn’t make his escape while you’re distracted he lets slip a fond smile. It is short-lived, though, and the troubled look to his eyes returns as he moves back to the couch. You join him.

He sits there quiet for a moment, like he’s trying to figure out the words, until he just shrugs and speaks, brow furrowed.

“You know how I told you my other relationships were all so short?” Stan asks. You recall him telling you this was the longest relationship he’d been in, besides Carla.

“I didn’t sleep with them,” Stan says, all the words bunching together in a rush. He flushes, nervous, and the most you’re allowed to see of his face is his profile.

“I just..I liked them, really did, but that kinda thing ain’t my style. So they broke things off with me. Well,” Stan adds, “they also broke it off 'cause of my charming personality, but the sex thing was always a big one. Like I couldn’t even give em  _that._ ”

“What? Stan, that’s terrible.”

“Well, you know,” Stan says, trying to give a weak grin, forced and fake. “The way I act, how can you blame 'em? I spend all my time sellin them on it and I never follow through.”

“And with you, you took things slow, but,” he shrugs, “at some point 'stay the night’ turns into a code invitation for a horizontal tango.”

“So you never stayed,” you finish for him. It takes a moment for his whole answer to sink in, and as you think, Stan shifts nervously in his seat. He glances to the floor, then the wall, and then to you, before falling back down to his lap.

“I get it if you think I’m not worth the trouble,” Stan says. He wears this half-hearted smile you wish he wouldn’t feel the need for, and you move onto his side of the couch to hug him.

“You’re worth the trouble,” you say, muffled, into his shoulder. “And this isn’t even trouble, it’s just fine.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Stan grows quiet, for a moment, and then hugs you back.

“If you’ve still got those movies I’ll stay and make my famous pancakes in the morning,“ Stan says, still holding you tight. It would be perfect, except…

“Stan, I had to return those to the rental place  _yesterday_.“ Stan groans, and you add, “Guess you’ll have to make pancakes for free.“

Stan directs a suggestive look your way.

“New price: one pancake per kiss,“ Stan says, “and I take payment in advance.“


	38. enhanced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford, who's perfect

Ever since you came back from that research outing with Ford you’ve felt…weird.

Ford’s at his desk, freshly showered and leaning back in his chair with ease, sorting through stacks of research papers. You sit in a chair you’d pulled up beside his desk a couple months ago and never really put back.

The journey had taken place just this morning. It had been run of the mill, really– Ford walking faster than you the whole way, Ford pausing for you, Ford telling you not-so-subtly that you needed to hurry up. You hadn’t even had time to finish breakfast that morning, half a bagel still clutched in hand as you navigated off the beaten path, in Ford’s rushed footsteps.

(Ford shifts at his desk, rearranging his legs again, paper almost spilling off his lap in the process. He jerks forward to grab them and glances back at you to see if you’d noticed, but all you notice is the line of his forearm, how nice it looks under his rolled sleeve.)

By mid morning, you’d reached it: the cluster of flowers Ford had been looking for, which he’d seen an illustration of in some old book in the library. The drawing had had a bold “WARNING” written beside it. Thinking back on it, you’re not entirely sure that book belonged to the library to begin with. It had probably lost its way, and the details of its warning had too, as its words in smudged graphite had become too faint to read. What would have been considered as a cautionary excerpt by anyone else became a challenge to Ford, because clearly, this was a mystery that needed solving– a mystery that Ford had to get his hands on.

(Ford picks up his mug of coffee, fingers curling around the handle in a motion exquisitely commonplace, and drinks. You watch the line of his neck move with each gulp; he licks his lips, thirst slaked, and his attention turns back to his research papers.)

Flowers located, Ford had approached with caution, but after plucking one (bare-handed, the absolute madman) he’d inspected it and given it a thoughtful “hmm” and handed it to you, to contain it for further examination back at the lab. Except, when you took it and Ford turned his back on you to document the flowers in his journal, the bloom had glowed and sent a jet of pollen straight into your face.

There the specimen is now, in a glass container on Ford’s desk, small and pink and withered. You’d tried not to breathe in the pollen (or whatever it was), and looking at it, it’s clear the flower had depleted its resources on the act and had now settled down to die. Ford pushes his lapfull of research papers back onto his desk and frowns at the dying flower, prodding its container with a finger. A finger on a very well-shaped hand, connected to a well-shaped wrist.

“I don’t understand. Most flowers can keep at least a day in water. What happened to this one?” Ford looks over to you, nudging his glasses higher on his nose, his eyes behind its lenses the perfect shade of brown. “Any thoughts?”

You’re thinking about the journey again, thinking about watching Ford navigate the uneven forest floor, thinking about every drop of sweat you’ve seen trail down his forehead, cheek, or jaw. It’s an easy segue to observing how his hair curls at his neck, still damp from his earlier shower, and how deep and expressive his eyes are. You could get lost in there, you think, and you say all of that aloud.

“W-Wh–” Ford stammers, either from your thoughts or the way you’re now rounding his desk to get a better look. Your hand runs over the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the roughness delighting you more than anything ever has, and you know you could have more. Your other hand cups his face to feel the skin of his cheek under your palm burn hot. His lips are parted, slack, and perfect.

“What are you…,” Ford says, and you kiss him. Some distant part of you is mortified, but the rest of you hums in pleasure, and upon hearing the sound Ford melts and gives in. He tugs you closer, first distracted, second purposeful, intending to draw you onto his lap. His hand at the back of your neck was placed to guide you, but you guide yourself; his mouth parts with a moan as he tilts his head to fit perfectly with you.

You sink into his lap, and his free hand comes to your waist. His perfect, free hand, and if you concentrate you can count the touch of all six fingers upon your skin, through the frustrating barrier of clothing.

“This is happening,” Ford says breathless and disbelieving, as you guide his hand to go under your shirt where it belongs, and return to his lips again. “This…is impossible,” he continues between breaths, “Improbable. Something has to be….”

Then you’re kissing unmoving stone, because Ford has frozen stiff and his lips have stilled against yours. Following this you’re cold, because he has pushed you off, and then you’re frustrated, because none of this makes sense. He was  _kissing_  you, and it would’ve been beautiful.

“I know,” Ford says, voice hard even while his expression betrays uncertainty. Somewhere within you, you’d call it insecurity. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it? You haven’t been acting right. I read it as a reaction to the way I snapped at you this morning, but this…this is something else.”

Ford gets up, grabbing the contained flower as he goes, taking the long way around his desk to avoid your longing reach out to him. You can feel your face turning down in disappointment, in hurt, and when Ford turns back after opening the door to exit, he looks pained to see it on you.

“I’m going to fix this, alright? Wait here.” He makes it a command, even though his voice is shaky– from somewhere within, you think that shakiness in his voice at all is unusual. On the surface, his words turn into a directive for you to wait until his return.

The door closes, vanishing the sight of him, and immediately you feel a great loss. You drop back into your chair, disheartened. Light has left the universe, your mind helpfully supplies, and it won’t return until Ford is here again. You play out hundreds of scenarios in which Ford had stayed, until the door opens, revealing the subject of your wildest dreams himself. Ford’s perfect face peeks in, followed by his perfect body, and in his perfect hands he holds a regular beaker.

“Drink this. It’ll fix it,” Ford says, and when you take it only to set it aside and attempt to tug him towards your lap for another kiss, he adds, “Drink it for me. Please. I would…love it.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking exquisite even while nervous. With an impatient sigh, you pick it up and down it immediately–

–and curl in on yourself in your chair, mortified. All around you, your surroundings dim from saturated reds and pinks to…dull normalcy. Ford’s shoes are in your line of sight and to your relief they look scruffy, regular, nowhere near perfect. You look up with apologies already spilling from your lips but Ford just looks relieved, rushing into your space for a tight hug.

“It worked, didn’t it! Oh, I’m– I’m incredibly glad you’re okay,” Ford says. His lips twist into a frown as he glares into the past. “Screw that…stupid…flower.”

You’re still mortified from the experience earlier, but you push past it, trying to return to a dynamic that speaks normalcy by telling him what happened this morning. Ford nods, seriously.

“Yes, next time you should be more cautious. …Oh, me? I…should be more cautious? I…um….” Curiously, Ford’s cheeks seem to redden and redden further until he’s blushing about as much as he was when you first (oh, god) kissed him. You ask him, blushing hard yourself, if he’s okay.

“I’m fine! Ha ha. Yes, what’s there to not be fine about? It’s just….” Ford looks nervous again. You’re glad to see the expression invokes your usual fondness for him and not…other feelings.

“About earlier when we k-kissed,” Ford stammers, “I just want to say…forget the whole thing. I know it was out of character for you. And to be frank, it was for me as well. Damn flower must’ve, uh, had me on the outskirts of its radius when it got you. Or there was some left, on your….lips. You should…you should check for that.”

You touch your lips absentmindedly and Ford follows the movement with his eyes, almost mesmerized before he breaks his gaze away again. You swallow, nervous, and say…you think he should check for you.

Ford’s hand is at your chin in the next instant. He tilts your head up towards him, his thumb dragging a gentle, slow line across your lower lip.

“There must be some left, even now,” Ford says, soft, almost as though speaking to himself. “The possibility of you genuinely wanting me is too unlikely.”

And yet, the possibility of you still feeling the trace effects of the flower is even unlikelier. In fact, with  _him_  working on the antidote, with his smarts and thoroughness? You’d say there was zero possibility.

“So you’re saying…?” Ford says, flushed from the compliment, and further, unable to put together what’s right in front of him. Trembling, in your voice and in your hands, you admit that you’ve wanted him– wanted that kiss, and that the flower only hastened the inevitable.

Then he’s kneeling at your feet, hands cradling your face, and before you can register it, Ford’s kissing you again. Elation rises in your chest; you think faintly that while the flower may have amplified and distorted your attraction to Ford, it hadn’t needed to do anything to his kiss– this feels as good as it did before. Except, this one feels relieved, and accordingly impassioned.

“So you’re saying it wasn’t a love potion,” Ford says, lips still close to yours but he’s talking now instead of kissing, “It just enhanced what you feel for me.”

“ _What you feel for me_ ,” Ford repeats breathlessly before you can respond, and he sits back, laughing in disbelief. “Are we sure it doesn’t make people dream things? Impossible things? If I pinched myself, would it– ow, yes. But–”

You grin and laugh yourself, taking his hands in yours. You assure him, if he’s not yet convinced, that this is very real. In fact, you’d be willing to spend the rest of the afternoon proving it to him– and, shyly, he asks you to do just that.


End file.
